IRLF 


31    437 


REESE    LIBRARY 

OP   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Received  _  _          ^l/rM2<Z4/  :I.  iS?/ 

if  I'     '' 

Accessions  No^.^.^T^..      Shelf  No.. .J.O..^ 


THE    STAGE 


PREFACE. 


"Custom  exacts — and  who  denies  her  sway? — 
An  epilogue  to  every  five-act  play." — DR.  PANGLOSS. 

So  does  custom  warrant  an  author,  in  intro- 
ducing his  work  to  the  public,  to  offer  a  few 
words  concerning  its  intent  and  purpose.  In 
the  first  place,  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
apologize  for  this  publication  of  my  book,  nor 
for  the  nature  and  form  of  its  contents.  I  have 
often  been  strongly  impressed  with  the  lively 
interest  manifested  by  the  public  in  matters 
relating  to  the  stage,  not  only  before  but  also 
"  behind  the  curtain ;"  and  as  my  public  and  pri- 
vate recitals,  depicting  the  varied  features  of 
dramatic  action  and  the  peculiar  traits  of  actors, 
have  always  met  with  favor  from  my  auditors, 
I  have  been  induced  to  transfer  my  professional 
impressions  to  the  printed  page. 

"  The  Stage "  is  a  phrase  of  very  comprehen- 
sive character.  I  have  not  attempted  to  cover 
all  the  territory  which  it  may  indicate,  but  have 


8  PREFACE. 

reserved  to  myself  the  privilege  of  adhering  to 
or  departing  from  its  literal  meaning,  as  far  as 
has  been  necessary  for  the  development  of  my 
plan,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  the  arrange- 
ment of  my  subject-matter. 

I  need  not  inform  my  readers  that  I  am  in- 
experienced in  the  art  of  book-making.  If  they 
should  have  confidence  enough  in  the  author 
and  interest  enough  in  the  title  of  his  book  to 
undertake  the  reading  of  the  accompanying 
pages,  they  will  have  sufficient  reason,  I  feel, 
to  conclude  that  it  is  the  work  of  a  novice. 

And  now,  having  appeared  before  the  public 
to  introduce  these  "  Recollections  "  to  those  who 
were  my  constant  and  liberal  patrons  in  my 
old  vocation,  I  retire  to  private  life  and,  in  tfie 
language  of  stage-apology  for  "short-comings," 
I  throw  myself  and  my  book  upon  "the  indul- 
gence of  a  generous  public." 


r 


THE  STAGE 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ACTORS  AND  ACTING 


FROM    AN    EXPERIENCE    OF    FIFTY    YEAR? 


A    SERIES    OF 


DRAMATIC  SKETCHES 


BY 


JAMES    E.    MURDOCH 
[  WITH  AN  APPENDIX} 


'1A11  the  world's  a  stage  ! 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players" 

SHAKESPEAHK. 


CINCINNATI 
ROBERT    CLARKE    &    CO 

1884 


Copyright,  188O, 

BY  JAMES  E,  MTJRDDCH, 


A  long  association,  in  the  spirit  of  a  friendly  and  literary  sym- 
pathy,  wherein   the   Author   has    realized  that   grateful 
communion  of  kindred  souls  -which  makes  men 
brothers— "Not  in  the  fashion  that  the  world 
puts  on,   but  brothers   in  the  heart"— 
impels  him  to  dedicate  these 
"Recollections"   to 

FRANCIS  DE  HAES  JANVIER, 

A  firm  and  fearless   advocate  of  the   National    Integrity,  and 

a  true  exponent  of  the   noble,  the  bright,  and  the 

beautiful  in  the  realm  of  Nature. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 13 


CHAPTER   I. 
THE  TRAGEDIAN,  AND  HIS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  POET 25 

CHAPTER   II. 
IMITATION  AND  MIMICRY 42 

CHAPTER   III. 
THE  PLAYERS  OF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO 59 

CHAPTER   IV. 
JOHN  PHILIP  KEMBLE,  CHARLES  KEAN,  AND  COOKE 72 

CHAPTER   V. 
ANECDOTES  OF  ACTORS 87 

CHAPTER  VI. 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  DRAMATIC  ART. — MACREADY'S  WERNER,   no 

o 


1  2  CONTENTS. 


APPEND.IX. 

i 

I.      « 

PAGE 

DRAMA  (from  Southern  Literary  Messenger]  .........   423 


II. 
THEATRICAL  AFFAIRS  PREVIOUS  TO  GARRICK  ........    ...  439 

HI. 

DAVID  GARRICK'S  FIRST  APPEARANCE  —  BILL  OF  PLAY....  454 


IV. 

DISSERTATION  ON  THEATRICAL  SUBJECTS,  BY   THEOPHILUS 

GIBBER,   COMEDIAN   (London,  1759) 455 


V. 

STRICTURES  UPON  THE  ACTING  AND  PERSONAL  TRAITS  OF 

DAVID  GARRICK 490 


INDEX 505 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

BY  J.  BUNTING. 


JAMES  EDWARD  MURDOCH,  one  of  the  most  generally  ad- 
mired of  American  actors,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Philadel- 
phia on  January  25,  1811.  He  was  not  of  that  stock  from 
which  actors  or  intellectual  workers  of  any  class  usually  ap- 
pear. His  parents  were  Thomas  and  Elizabeth  Murdoch. 
The  father  was  engaged  in  mechanical  pursuits,  finding  time 
also  to  indulge  somewhat  in  local  politics,  and  in  that  close 
kinship  with  local  politics  which  was  even  then,  as  afterward, 
manifested  in  the  associations  of  the  volunteer  fire  department. 
He  was  also  a  volunteer  soldier,  having  served  as  an  officer  of 
artillery  in  the  war  of  1812. 

The  business  calling  of  Thomas  Murdoch  was  that  of  a  book- 
binder and  paper-ruler.  Those  were  the  good  old-fashioned 
times  when  the  apprentice  system  prevailed — a  system  which 
produced  so  much  hardship  to  boys,  but  which  reared  so  many 
sturdy  men.  To  avoid  the  hardships,  and  yet  retain  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  system,  Thomas  Murdoch  took  all  of  his  four 
sons,  one  after  another,  into  his  own  establishment,  and  taught 
them  himself.  Of  these,  James  Edward  was  the  eldest.  He  had 
obtained  but  a  very  moderate  share  of  common-school  education 
at  the  time  of  his  entering  upon  the  duties  of  his  father's  busi- 
ness, but  the  active,  inquiring  spirit  of  an  American  lad  helped, 
in  large  measure,  to  supply  this  deficiency,  which  was  still  fur- 
ther improved  upon  by  the  systematic  studies  of  a  later  period. 

It  is  always  interesting,  when  reviewing  a  public  life  which 
has  won  its  honors  in  any  special  department,  to  trace,  wher 

2  13 


14    BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

ever  it  is  practicable,  the  circumstances  which  led  to  such  a 
result.  It  is,  fortunately,  quite  possible  to  do  so  in  Murdoch's 
case.  The  apprentice-boy,  reared  by  the  father  in  childhood 
and  working  at  his  side  in  youth,  naturally  imbibed  his  habits 
and  associations.  What  Philadelphia  boy  of  fifty  years  ago 
was  there  who  did  not  long  for  the  time  to  come  when  he 
might  wear  a  painted  hat  and  cape  and  carry  a  speaking- 
trumpet?  As  Murdoch  grew  up,  but  before  he  was  yet  old 
enough  to  join  a  fire  company,  he  had  become  a  member  of  a 
volunteer  company  of  youthful  militiamen.  Not  one  of  them 
was  over  fifteen  years  of  age.  Murdoch,  at  thirteen,  was  asso- 
ciated with  the  company  when  they  were  detailed  to  form 
part  of  the  escort  assigned  to  La  Fayette  at  his  grand  recep- 
tion in  1824. 

Following  thus  after  his  father  in  military  proclivities,  he 
copied  him  also  in  due  time  by  becoming  a  volunteer  fire- 
man, and  it  was  in  the  engine-house  of  the  old  Vigilant  Com- 
pany that  young  Murdoch  made  his  first  speech,  at  a  company 
meeting.  The  firemen  in  those  days  drew  to  their  ranks  some 
of  the  most  intelligent  classes  of  the  community.  In  the  hall 
of  the  Vigilant  a  debating-school  was  in  full  blast  during  Mur- 
doch's membership.  He  entered  its  ranks  with  his  accustomed 
enthusiasm,  but  soon  demonstrated — to  his  own  satisfaction  at 
least — that  he  was  not  a  debater.  He  next  proceeded  to  profit 
by  the  discovery ;  and  profited  so  well  that,  after  a  few  of  his 
spirited  specimens  of  declamation,  the  debating-club  resolved 
itself  into  an  association  of  amateur  actors,  and  found  it  neces- 
sary to  secure  a  larger  hall.  It  was  here  that  Murdoch  first 
presented  an  actual  dramatic  part  entire,  performing  in  the 
play  of  Douglas  as  Glenalvon,  the  villain. 

At  this  period  he  placed  himself  regularly  under  the  tuition 
of  the  late  Lemuel  G.  White,  an  elocutionist  who  had  previ- 
ously taught  another  pupil  destined  to  obtain  great  distinc- 
tion— Edwin  Forrest.  Mr.  White  introduced  Murdoch  to  the 
late  Dr.  James  Rush,  from  whom  he  studied  the  science  of  the 
human  voice  and  gathered  many  valuable  principles  which 
aided  largely  in  adding  to  the  charm  of  his  readings  and 
recitations. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR.     15 

It  is  a  very  strong  evidence  of  Murdoch's  progress  in  this 
amateur  way  that,  before  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  his  efforts 
had  won  a  circle  of  admirers  who  were  not  only  the  first  to  rec- 
ognize his  histrionic  talents,  but  who  never  ceased  to  urge  his 
claims  as  a  national  actor — one  whose  talents  were  destined  to 
add  lustre  to  the  brilliant  history  of  the  American  Drama. 

In  the  year  1829  the  Arch  Street  Theatre  was  already  one 
of  the  chief  places  of  amusement  in  Philadelphia.  At  that 
time  the  fraternity  of  actors  was  chiefly  composed  of  perform- 
ers brought  from  England.  The  manager  of  the  Arch  was  the 
late  Aaron  Phillips.  In  October,  1829,  he  was  playing  an  Eng- 
lish company.  Murdoch  was  already  yearning  for  a  place  be- 
fore the  footlights,  and  youthful  friends  in  large  numbers  were 
urging  him  forward.  At  last  the  matter-of-fact  bookbinder, 
his  father,  so  far  succumbed  to  outside  pressure  that  he  en- 
gaged the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  company  and  all,  from  Man- 
ager Phillips  for  a  single  night,  and  on  the  i3th  of  October, 
1829,  James  E.  Murdoch  made  his  first  dramatic  appearance 
in  public  as  Frederick  in  Kotzebue's  play  of  Lovers'  Vows. 

A  large  number  of  friends  were  in  attendance  that  evening, 
among  whom  were  some  whose  names  afterward  became  locally 
prominent — those  of  Joseph  Harrison,  Jr.,  Andrew  Kitchen, 
Ferdinand  J.  Dreer,  and  several  others.  Few  of  them  yet  sur- 
vive. At  the  close  of  the  play  loud  calls  were  made  for  the 
manager,  and,  upon  his  appearance,  a  formal  request  was  made 
that  Murdoch  should  be  offered  a  standing  engagement.  As 
the  company  then  playing  was  only  under  engagement  for  the 
time  being,  this  demand  could  not  be  complied  with.  He  was 
permitted,  however,  to  play  several  characters,  without  pay, 
during  the  season,  among  them,  Young  Norval,  JarBer  in  Venice 
Preserved,  and  Octavian  in  The  Mountaineers.  At  the  close 
of  the  theatrical  season  a  benefit  was  arranged  for  him,  he  ap- 
pearing as  Selim  in  a  play  called  Barbarossa. 

Although  the  audiences  received  all  of  these  efforts  with  de- 
cided favor,  they  had  no  appreciable  effect  on  the  actor's  for- 
tunes, nor  in  elevating  his  position  in  the  profession.  This 
was  owing  to  the  peculiar  etiquette  which  prevailed,  prevent- 
ing new  players  from  assuming  parts  which  were  in  possession 


1 6    BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

of  established  actors.  But  the  results  did  have  an  effect  on 
his  father's  mind.  Thomas  Murdoch  said  to  the  future  actor, 
"You  are  choosing  a  new  field.  You  cannot  serve  two  mas- 
ters, nor  succeed  in  two  callings.  I  know  nothing  about  this 
stage  business,  but  I  do  know  that  to  prosper  in  it  you  must 
study  and  work.  All  the  assistance  I  can  give  I  will,  but  you 
must  trust  in  the  main  to  your  own  resources." 

While  this  was  really  only  a  sort  of  moral  endorsement,  it 
had  a  practical  effect  and  stimulated  the  young  actor  to  fresh 
exertions.  Influential  friends  greatly  encouraged  him.  One 
promised  to  secure  for  him  a  scholarship  at  Princeton,  in  the 
secret  hope,  as  was  afterward  learned,  that  he  might  become 
a  great  pulpit  orator.  But  Murdoch's  realm  was  destined  to 
be  the  stage,  and  the  stage  looked  too  far  away  when  seen 
over  such  a  horizon.  A  more  active  career  was  offered.  In 
the  spring  of  1830  he  accepted  an  engagement  as  "walking 
gentleman  ' '  to  play  in  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia.  The  salary  was 
to  be  eight  dollars  a  week,  and  his"  father  paid  his  travelling 
expenses  to  reach  his  destination.  Even  in  this  subordinate 
position  Murdoch's  abilities  became  so  apparent  that  he  was 
soon  tendered  a  benefit,  producing  therein  the  dramatic  sen- 
sation of  the  season.  The  company,  however,  came  to  grief 
before  the  year  was  out,  the  manager  going  into  bankruptcy. 
Murdoch  was  penniless,  and  his  father  wrote  to  a  correspond- 
ent at  Halifax  enclosing  the  means,  as  he  said,  to  "send 
the  vagrant  home." 

At  this  critical  moment  the  chances  of  making  a  good  book- 
binder and  losing  a  promising  actor  seemed  very  fair  indeed 
in  Murdoch's  case.  However,  it  happened  that  Mr.  John 
Sefton,  himself  an  actor,  was  then  in  Philadelphia,  looking  up 
recruits  for  the  travelling  company  of  Vincent  DeCamp.  De- 
Camp  was  a  brother-in-law  of  Charles  Kemble,  an  actor  of 
considerable  ability,  and  a  manager  of  experience.  His  com- 
pany was  then  playing  engagements  in  the  South  and  West. 
Murdoch  accepted  a  position  in  the  same  humble  line  as  that 
at  Halifax,  but  with  the  pay — or  the  promise  of  it  at  least — in- 
creased to  eighteen  dollars  per  week.  He  appeared  in  Charles- 
ton, Savannah,  and  other  cities  during  the  winter  of  1830-31. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH   OF   THE  AUTHOR.    17 

At  Augusta,  Georgia,  he  played  his  first  leading  part  with  this 
company  at  the  special  request  of  Edwin  Forrest,  who  was  then 
starring  with  the  company.  Forrest,  being  engaged  to  play 
Damon,  was  so  dissatisfied  with  the  Pythias  offered  by  the 
management  that  he  flatly  refused  to  appear  with  him.  De- 
Camp  insisted  that  it  was  the  best  that  could  be  done  with  the 
company  then  at  his  command.  "No,"  said  Forrest  imperi- 
ously, "  it  is  not.  You  have  a  man  named  Murdoch  in  your 
company  whom  I  once  saw  act  in  Philadelphia.  Give  the 
part  to  him,"  The  dramatic  result  was  highly  satisfactory 
to  all  parties. 

The  financial  result  of  this  engagement  was  less  satisfactory. 
It  ended,  as  the  other  had  done,  with  a  break-up.  Murdoch 
managed  to  get  home  to  Philadelphia,  but  with  hardly  a  whole 
suit  to  his  back.  His  affairs  were  the  more  desperate  in  that, 
anticipating  from  his  DeCamp  engagement  a  paying  business, 
he  had  made  arrangements  to  marry.  He  carried  out  this  in- 
tention during  the  same  year  (1831),  the  wife  of  his  choice 
being  Miss  Eliza  Middiecott,  the  daughter  of  a  London  sil- 
versmith. At  this  time  he  was  enjoying  a  precarious  connec- 
tion with  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Robert  T.  Conrad,  who 
was  about  his  own  age,  proposed  to  write  him  a  play.  They 
were  then,  as  afterward,  warm  friends  and  companions,  and 
Murdoch  of  course  favored  the  idea.  Mr.  Conrad's  produc- 
tion was  entitled  Conrad  •of  Naples •,  the  part  of  the  hero  having 
been  written  expressly  for  Murdoch,  and  it  was  played  with 
marked  success  at  his  benefit  on  the  night  of  its  initial  per- 
formance. But  a  difficulty  afterward  arose  from  the  fact,  just 
alluded  to,  that  no  subordinate  actor  could  be  assigned  a  lead- 
ing part  save  at  his  own  benefit.  The  leading  man  took  no 
interest  m.  it,  and  the  play  of  Conrad  of  Naples  was  shelved. 
Soon  afterward  the  manager  of  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York, 
hearing  of  the  circumstances  attending  its  performance  in  Phil- 
adelphia, offered  to  bring  it  out  there,  but  Murdoch  could  not 
gain  permission  to  leave  his  unfinished  engagement.  Neither 
he  nor  Conrad  had  the  necessary  means  to  risk  the  venture, 
entailing,  as  it  would,  considerable  expense  for  rehearsals  and 
travelling  bills.  Years  afterward  an  adaptation  of  Conrad  by 
2  *  B 


1 8    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR. 

the  then  eminent  author's  hand  became  known  over  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  country  as  Jack  Cade. 

It  was  during  the  year  1832  that  Murdoch  met  with  an  ac- 
cident, the  effects  of  which  have  never  been  completely  erad- 
icated. During  his  connection  with  the  Arch  Street  Theatre 
his  wife  fell  ill.  To  the  fatigues  of  his  professional  duties  were 
added  the  cares  of  a  sick-room.  Weakened  by  overwork  and 
anxiety,  he  was  ordered  a  prescription  for  a  severe  attack  of 
indigestion.  In  mistake  he  took  a  preparation  of  arsenic. 
The  late  Dr.  George  B.  McClellan,  who  was  called  in,  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  his  life,  but  said,  "You  will  never  get  over 
it  as  long  as  you  live."  The  ominous  prophecy  has  proven 
true  to  the  extent  that  Mr.  Murdoch  has  rarely  been  able  to  en- 
dure the  fatigue  of  lengthy  engagements,  and  has  spent  a  good 
portion  of  his  most  active  years  in  retirement  and  out-door  life. 

After  leaving  the  Arch,  Mr.  Murdoch's  life  for  the  few  follow- 
ing years  was  nomadic.  He  first  accepted  the  position  of  lead- 
ing juvenile  at  the  old  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  where  he  played 
with  Fanny  Kemble.  His  health  failing  soon  after  being  es- 
tablished there,  he  journeyed  South  under  medical  advice,  go- 
ing as  far  as  New  Orleans,  but  playing  very  seldom,  Upon  his 
return  he  attached  himself  to  the  company  of  F.  C.  Wemyss, 
appearing  as  home  star  alternately  in  Pittsburg  and  Philadel- 
phia. His  next  position  was  at  the  Tremont  Theatre,  Boston, 
where  he  remained  a  year,  but  resigned  to  take  the  place  of 
stage-manager  at  the  Chestnut  in  this  city. 

It  was  during  his  incumbency  here  at  this  period  that  the  cele- 
brated production  of  the  opera  of  Norma  took  place,  at  which 
the  Woods  (Mrs.  Julia  Wood,  nee  Paton,  and  her  husband)  were 
the  chief  stars.  Old  playgoers  will  easily  recall  the  sensation 
which  the  prima  donna  then  made,  and  also  the  strong  feeling 
of  indignation  which  some  of  the  doings  of  the  Woods  aroused 
both  here  and  in  New  York.  The  sentiment  with  which  they 
then  regarded  Americans  was  very  similar  to  that  which  Dick- 
ens put  into  print  two  years  later  in  his  American  Notes.  The 
Woods  received  four  hundred  dollars  per  night  for  their  ser- 
vices, and  were  wisely  prompt  in  collecting  it.  After  they 
were  paid  there  was  mpstly  nothing  left  for  the  company,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR.    19 

both  Murdoch  and  his  associates  were  obliged  to  play  for 
weeks  without  receiving  a  dollar  of  their  salaries.  When  this 
could  be  no  longer  endured,  Murdoch  appealed  to  Mrs.  Wood 
to  allow  the  actors  of  the  company  at  least  the  receipts  for  one 
night,  and  wait  for  her  money  until  the  close  of  the  week.  This 
she  refused  to  do.  He  then  told  her  the  theatre  would  have  to 
be  closed  the  following  night.  She  laughed  at  such  an  impos- 
sible event.  He  went  at  once  into  the  office,  and  wrote  and 
posted  a  bill  stating  that  the  Chestnut  would  be  closed  until  fur- 
ther notice.  It  remained  closed  for  a  number  of  weeks. 

During  the  same  season  of  1840-41,  Murdoch  accepted  the 
position  of  stage-manager  at  the  National  Theatre  of  Boston 
to  assist  in  the  first  production  in  that  city  of  London  Assurance. 
So  great  was  the  desire  to  see  this  play  that  a  copy  of  it  had 
been  taken  down  by  a  stenographer  in  the  pit  of  the  old  Park 
Theatre,  New  York  City,  where  it  was  first  played  in  America. 
It  had  in  Boston  what  was  considered  at  that  time  an  unprece- 
dented run. 

It  might  have  been  mentioned  before  this  that  Mr.  Mur- 
doch had,  from  the  beginning  of  his  public  appearances,  felt 
an  acute  sense  of  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  more  ex- 
haustive study  than  his  opportunities  had  thus  far  permitted.  His 
comparative  successes,  however  much  they  satisfied  his  friends, 
did  not  by  any  means  satisfy  himself.  The  opportunity  which 
he  now  found,  or  rather  created,  for  deeper  readings  and  more 
complete  research,  took,  at  first,  the  somewhat  abrupt  and  un- 
expected form  of  a  retirement  from  the  stage.  While  still  in 
the  successful  management  of  the  National,  acting  under  the 
advice  of  such  prominent  men  as  Governor  John  A.  Andrew 
and  Hon.  George  S.  Hillard,  both  of  whom  had  been  his  pu- 
pils in  elocution,  Mr.  Murdoch  decided  to  turn  his  attention  to 
lecturing  and  teaching.  He  appeared  before  the  Boston  Ly- 
ceum with  a  lecture  on  the  "  Uses  and  Abuses  of  the  Stage." 
This  was  followed  by  other  lectures,  both  in  Boston  and  New 
York,  which  were  favorably  commented  upon  throughout  all 
of  the  larger  cities.  In  private  life  he  was  not  idle.  It  has 
been  already  mentioned  that,  while  under  the  tuition  of  Mr. 
White  in  Philadelphia,  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr. 


20   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR. 

James  Rush  of  that  city.  To  Dr.  Rush's  vocal  theories,  as 
exemplified  in  his  work  on  The  Philosophy  of  the  Voice,  Mur- 
doch becdme  an  avowed  convert.  He  has  never  since  ceased 
his  efforts  to  promulgate  Rush's  views  both  by  precept  and  ex- 
ample. A  thorough  study  of  the  anatomy  of  the  vocal  organs 
secured  for  him  credentials  from  the  leading  medical  men  of 
New  England.  At  the  same  period  he  studied  rhetoric  with 
Prof.  William  Russell  of  Boston,  and,  in  connection  with  that 
gentleman,  prepared  a  work  on  The  Cultivation  of  the  Voice, 
which  was  published  by  Ticknor  &  Co.,  and  has  since  been 
used  extensively  as  a  text-book. 

Murdoch  returned  to  the  stage  in  October,  1845,  appearing 
at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  for  the  first  time  as  Hamlet. 
This  appearance  seems  to  have  been  generally  regarded  as  the 
beginning  of  his  greatest  period — a  period  which  continued, 
with  very  few  interruptions,  until  1860.  His  widely  versatile 
round  of  characters,  his  ready  assimilation  with  both  comic  and 
tragic  parts,  and  his  almost  equal  success  in  both,  made  him 
henceforward  a  leading  light  on  the  American  stage.  For  the 
intellectual  refinement  of  his  stage  conceptions  he  had  no 
equal.  His  fidelity  to  the  text  of  his  author  was  always  re- 
markable, and  he  never  sought  for  any  declamatory  effects 
which  were  not  the  legitimate  results  of  faultless  elocution. 

One  of  the  most  successful  and,  at  the  same  time,  most 
interesting  of  Mr.  Murdoch's  theatrical  engagements  occurred 
in  the  year  1853.  In  consequence  of  an  invitation  from  Mr. 
Lewis  Baker,  he  visited  California  under  that  gentleman's 
management.  He  was  supported  in  an  extensive  repertoire 
of  parts  by  Mrs.  Baker  (formerly  Miss  Alexina  Fisher),  a  lady 
well  known  in  theatrical  circles,  and  an  estimable  actress. 
She  was  for  a  long  time  associated  with  Murdoch,  appearing 
as  Juliet,  Pauline,  and  other  leading  characters.  At  that  date 
the  new  El  Dorado  was  a  land  of  adventure,  if  not  of  romance. 
The  California  book  of  Bayard  Taylor  had  already  given  a 
graphic  description  of  the  situation  of  affairs  there  in  1849 
and  1850,  when  the  gold-fever  first  broke  out.  Mr.  Murdoch 
was  one  of  the  earliest  pioneers  in  the  histrionic  department 
of  art  to  visit  that  then  remote  region.  It  was  partly  owing 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR.    21 

to  this  circumstance,  and  largely  because  the  best  dramatic 
art  is  apt  to  be  most  immediately  recognized  everywhere, 
that  this  California  engagement  was  exceedingly  profitable 
in  a  financial  point  of  view.  Mr.  Murdoch  played  for  a 
season  of  about  one  hundred  nights  in  San  Francisco,  Sac- 
ramento, Stockton,  and  Maysville,  receiving  from  numerous 
audiences  the  most  profound  and  sincere  demonstrations  of 
approval. 

In  the  year  1856,  Mr.  Murdoch  visited  England.  While 
this  trip  was  taken  with  the  intention  of  making  it  a  journey 
of  rest  and  recreation,  the  reputation  which  had  preceded  him 
secured  a  very  flattering  offer  of  an  engagement  from  Mr.  Buck- 
stone,  manager  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  London.  Buck- 
stone  had  already  acted  with  Murdoch  during  a  brief  visit  to 
America,  and  was  very  anxious  to  secure  him.  The  result 
was  the  longest  consecutive  list  of  performances  which  he  ever 
played.  His  parts  here  were  exclusively  in  comedy,  being 
young  Mirabel  in  The  Inconstant,  Charles  Surface,  Alfred 
Evelyn,  Rover  in  Wild  Oats,  Don  Felix  in  The  Wonder,  and 
Vapid  in  The  Dramatist.  The  London  season  continued  for 
one  hundred  and  ten  nights,  at  each  of  which  Murdoch's  name 
headed  the  bills.  He  next  repaired  to  Liverpool,  where  the 
most  flattering  prospects  awaited  him.  He  was  there  even 
more  successful  than  in  London,  playing,  in  addition  to  his 
usual  round  of  comedies,  Hamlet,  which  was  exhaustively  and 
carefully  criticised.  His  conception  of  Hamlet  was  at  this 
time  favorably  compared  with  those  of  Kean  and  Macready, 
and,  particularly,  as  resembling  that  of  Charles  Young,  a 
famous  Hamlet  of  the  Kemble  period.  In  the  midst  of  this 
success  ill  health  obliged  him  to  cut  short  this  engagement,  be- 
sides cancelling  others  in  Edinburgh,  Dublin,  and  other  cities. 

After  a  severe  attack  of  his  old  illness  he  recovered 
sufficiently  to  travel  in  Germany,  Switzerland,  and  Italy. 
While  on  this  brief  tour  Murdoch  paid  particular  attention 
to  the  study  of  vine-growing.  Three  years  before  he  had 
purchased  an  extensive  farm  in  Southern  Ohio,  and  resolved 
to  devote  it  to  grape-culture.  Upon  his  return  to  America 
he  carried  this  plan  into  effect,  securing  the  services  of  some 


22    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR. 

Rhenish  farm-hands  who  were  well  acquainted  with  the  grape 
and  its  habits. 

During  the  interval  between  Mr.  Murdoch's  return  from 
Europe  and  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  war  he  played  nu- 
merous engagements  in  all  the  prominent  cities  of  the  Union, 
with  all  the  honors  and  profits  of  a  popular  star.  He  spent 
also  a  considerable  share  of  his  time  on  his  farm,  which  is 
situated  in  Murdoch,  a  post-village  named  for  him  and  not 
far  distant  from  Cincinnati.  An  amusing  occurrence  which 
shows  the  drift  of  the  period  is  worth  noting  here.  One 
morning  he  was  aroused  by  a  prodigious  outcry  in  his  barn- 
yard, and,  going  out,  found  one  of  his  men  contesting  with  an 
immense  eagle*  for  the  possession  of  a  frightened  calf.  Mur- 
doch captured  the  eagle,  which  was  a  splendid  specimen,  mea- 
suring six  feet  across  the  wings.  This  little  incident  got  into 
print,  and  the  paragraph  went  the  rounds  as  paragraphs  will. 
Charles  Barras,  the  author  of  The  Black  Crook,  took  it  up  and 
prepared  a  witty  brochure,  with  comic  cuts,  entitled  How  Mur 
dock  vanquished  the  American  Eagle.  In  1860,  Mr.  Murdoch 
was  playing  an  engagement  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina. 
Here  he  met  with  an  accident  which  confined  him  to  his 
hotel  for  several  days,  where  he  was  attended  by  a  prominent 
physician.  Upon  asking  for  his  bill  he  was  informed  that 
there  would  be  no  charge.  On  being  pressed  for  an  explana- 
tion, the  doctor  said  emphatically,  "I  have  no  charge  against 
the  man  who  vanquished  the  American  eagle." 

It  has  been  often  said  that  the  actor  can  do  less  for  posterity 
than  other  men.  He  is  a  part  of  the  history  of  his  country, 
but  not  of  its  deeds.  The  works  of  the  painter  still  glow  on 
trie  canvas,  the  poet's  songs  are  still  sung,  but  the  actor's 
art  dies  with  him,  or  lives  only  in  the  uncertain  realm  of 
memory.  It  has  been  Murdoch's  rare  opportunity  to  so  asso- 
ciate his  name  with  the  fortunes  of  his  country,  at  a  time  of 
national  trouble,  that  it  may  be  fairly  said  of  him,  the  pa- 
triot's bays  will  rival  the  actor's  laurels.  While  playing  at 
Pittsburg,  in  the  troublous  spring  of  1861,  news  reached  him 
that  a  favorite  son  had  joined  the  army.  He  closed  his  en- 
gagement abruptly,  and  went  to  Washington.  While  there  he 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR.    2$ 

associated  with  many  prominent  citizens  in  encouraging  the 
patriotic  spirit  of  the  then  aroused  nation.  On  one  occasion, 
when  a  meeting  was  being  held,  Colonel  John  W.  Forney, 
then  Clerk  of  the  Senate,  requested  Murdoch  to  recite  Drake's 
poem  of  "The  American  Flag."  The  effect  was  prodigious. 
The  audience  was  in  an  uproar  of  enthusiasm.  Simon  Cam- 
eron said  to  the  reader  afterward,  "I  never  before  in  my  life 
felt  the  full  meaning  of  a  flag  to  fight  for."  Such  were  the 
circumstances  attending  the  commencement  of  those  patriotic 
readings  which,  springing  from  Colonel  Forney's  happy  sug- 
gestion, and  continuing  afterward  under  his  special  care,  ex- 
tended to  both  houses  of  Congress  and  permeated  the  hospitals 
and  homes  of  the  entire  country,  and  which,  even  more  than 
all  his  talents  and  acquirements  as  an  actor,  have  endeared 
Murdoch  to  the  popular  heart.  From  that  time  onward  he 
gave  himself  up  as  absolutely  to  the  country  as  any  soldier  on 
the  field.  -  He  gave  readings  in  all  the  cities  of  the  North,  in 
the  soldiers'  hospitals,  in  the  camps  of  the  army  on  the  field — 
wherever  there  was  money  to  be  raised  or  fainting  courage  to 
be  cheered.  The  amount  of  good  done  could  scarcely  be 
overestimated.  Its  money-value  alone  was  very  great,  although 
that  was  the  least  part  of  its  worth.  His  friend  Thomas  Bu- 
chanan Read,  who  had  just  finished  his  poem  "The  Wagoner 
of  the  Alleghanies,"  was  persuaded  by  Murdoch  to  loan  him 
the  manuscript,  and  the  poet  and  actor  first  rehearsed  it  in  the 
Ohio  log  cabin  of  the  latter.  The  readings  of  this  poem  were 
wonderfully  successful,  particularly  in  the  cities  and  towns  of 
Pennsylvania.  Janvier's  "Sleeping  Sentinel,"  Bryant's  "Bat- 
tle-Field" and  Whittier's  "Barbara  Frietchie"  were  also  im- 
mense favorites.  But  the  pathetic  side  of  this  period — per- 
haps, indeed,  the  most  truly  dramatic  one  also — was  con- 
nected with  the  actor's  readings  at  soldiers'  camp-fires  in  the 
field — sdmetimes  within  sound  of  the  enemy's  guns — and 
in  the  numerous  army  hospitals.  Many  of  the  scenes  which 
resulted  from  his  elocutionary  efforts  on  such  occasions  were 
really  thrilling,  and  in  keeping  with  that  wild  time.  On  one 
occasion,  at  an  invalid  camp  near  Indianapolis,  after  reciting 
Bayard  Taylor's  poem,  "General  Scott  and  the  Veteran," 


24   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  OF   THE  AUTHOR. 

Murdoch  was  surrounded  and  almost  overwhelmed  by  an 
excited  crowd  of  veterans  who  rushed  to  his  desk,  eager  to 
testify  their  appreciation  of  the  poet's  heroic  sentiments  as 
thus  impressed  upon  them  by  the  reader's  ringing  and  elo- 
quent utterances. 

For  a  number  of  years  after  the  war  closed  Murdoch  re- 
mained in  close  retirement  on  his  Ohio  farm.  So  little  did  he 
mingle  with  the  outside  world,  and  so  close  was  his  privacy, 
that  it  is  said  old  friends  and  admirers  who  visited  Cincinnati, 
upon  inquiring  for  him  and  knowing  that  his  residence  was  in 
the  vicinity,  could  not  ascertain  its  locality.  Grape-culture  still 
occupied  his  outdoor  life,  and  the  study  of  his  old  profession 
formed  the  recreation  of  his  leisure  hours.  A  series  of  lectures 
and  essays  on  elocution  were  also  prepared,  based  on  the  the- 
ories of  his  early  preceptor,  Dr.  Rush.  Murdoch's  advo- 
cacy of  these  theories  has  already  been  referred  to  in  this 
narrative.  To  use  his*  own  words,  the  Rush  method  is  "  the 
only  one  which  gives  a  mastery  of  the  meaning  of  sentences, 
extracting  the  pith  as  well  as  producing  the  sounds."  During 
the  past  year  he  has  given  a  course  of  readings  and  lectures 
before  the  School  of  Oratory  in  Philadelphia.  There  has  even 
been  some  prospect  of  seeing  him  again  on  the  stage,  and, 
in  October  last,  an  effort  was  made  to  have  him  appear  on  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  life  as  an  actor.  Since  his  great  suc- 
cesses a  new  generation  has  grown  up,  with  new  methods  and 
in  many  respects  a  new  dramatic  ideal.  It  would  be  extremely 
interesting  to  compare  the  manners  and  methods  of  the  veteran 
actor  with  those  which  are  now  familiar. 

Mr.  Murdoch's  days  of  work  are  not  done,  nor  will  they  be 
while  his  life  continues.  His  temperament  is,  as  it  has  always 
been,  one  of  extraordinary  mental  activity,  and,  whatever  else 
may  be  allotted  to  him  in  the  future,  he  has  already  traced  the 
record  of  a  busy,  a  useful,  and  an  honored  career. 

APRIL,  1880. 


THE    STAGE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE    TRAGEDIAN,  AND   HIS  RELATIONS    TO    THE 

POET. 

HPHE  intellectual  rank  which  is  due  to  the  tra- 
-*•  gedian  is,  as  yet,  among  the  many  unsettled 
points  of  criticism.  There  have  been  writers  who 
question  his  title  to  any  place,  even  the  humblest, 
in  the  domain  of  genius.  His  vocation  has  been 
classed  among  the  merely  mimetic  and  mechan- 
ical— those  in  which  the  human  being  approaches 
the  inferior  natures  by  which  he  is  surrounded. 

The  player's  whole  function,  it  has  been  said, 
demands  nothing  more  than  passively  to  take  on 
the  feeling  and  the  character  prescribed  him,  to 
find  outward  look  and  voice  for  the  creation  of 
the  poet's  brain,  and  to  say  over  the  very  words 
set  down  for  him  by  another. 

Acting  is  deemed  by  such  authorities  in  art 
and  criticism  to  be  but  a  process  of  putting  on, 
a  trick  of  feigning,  a  facility  of  assuming,  an  art 
of  juggle  and  imposture — a  thing  which  any  one 
can  do  who  has  a  talent  for  mimicry  and  who 
will  descend  to  exercise  it. 

3  25 


26  THE  ACTOR'S   GENIUS. 

We  are  told  of  the  contest  between  Cicero 
and  Roscius  for  the  palm  of  excellence  in  the 
art  of  expressing  the  emotion  of  the  soul — be- 
tween the  orator  with  his  language  and  the 
actor  with  his  physical  expression  and  gesture — 
and  that  Roscius  received  the  prize. 

Does  not  this  antique  record  place  the  power 
of  the  actor  on  a  higher  intellectual  plane  than 
that  which  is  commonly  assigned  to  the  mimetic 
art,  when  associated  with  what  we  will  venture 
to  term  the  highest  effort  of  human  genius,  a 
great  tragedy? 

The  authors  who  would  belittle  the  actor's 
genius,  and  deny  him  even  the  smallest  share 
of  the  poetic  element,  "reason  a  little,  presume 
a  great  deal,  and  jump  to  a  conclusion."  They 
overlook  the  two  prime  facts  of  the  case :  first, 
that  the  graphic  presentation  of  a  thought  or 
the  perfect  delineation  of  a  character,  when  the 
conception  of  it  has  originated  in  the  mind  of 
another,  demands  "a  soul  capacious  of  such 
things."  The  mere  silent  reader  of  Shakespeare, 
who  passively  submits  the  surface  of  his  mind 
to  the  influence  of  the  poet's  genius,  is  but  poor- 
ly impressed  with  the  passing  sunshine  and  shade 
of  thoughts  not  his  own  ;  he  is  at  best  but  half 
conscious  of  them,  as  "  they  come  like  shadows, 
and  so  depart." 

From  those  whose  perceptions  are  so  transient- 
ly affected  by  dramatic  impressions  can  come  no 
rule  by  which  to  judge  the  true  merits  of  the  per- 
former, he  who  in  the  act  of  study  passes,  as  it 


THE  ACTORS    WORK.  27 

were,  out  of  self-consciousness,  and  identifies  him- 
self with  the  spirit  and  genius  of  the  author,  mak- 
ing his  conceptions  the  mould  into  which  he  pours 
his  whole  being,  taking  on  the  fresh  and  deep 
impression  of  every  thought,  and  reflecting,  as  a 
mirror  before  the  auditor's  mind,  an  exact  and 
perfect  image  of  every  trait  of  the  original. 

A  true  receptive  power  is  by  no  means  the 
passive  and  servile  thing  which  a  superficial  crit- 
icism would  make  it.  Let  us  say,  rather,  that  it 
demands  an  assimilating  and  co-operative  soul, 
a  positive  genius,  to  develop  it. 

In  fine,  we  assume  that  the  entire  apprehension 
of  a  poet's  conception  demands  a  feeling  conge- 
nial to  that  glow  which  originally  kindled  it,  an  im- 
agination allied  to  that  which  moulded  it  into  form. 
Such  must  be  the  receptive  faculty  of  the  actor 
who  aspires  to  the  front  rank  of  tragic  excellence. 

But  this  is  not  all.  The  player  is,  in  soul  and 
body,  to  give  back  the  impression  he  has  receiv- 
ed. He  is  to  work  as  an  artist  on  the  plastic  ma- 
terial of  his  own  nature — to  give  substance  and 
shape  and  palpable  reality  to  the  imaginings  of 
the  poet.  He  is  to  master,  in  the  electric  flash  of 
a  moment,  the  whole  art  of  stamping  a  true  and 
vivid  impress  of  the  poet  on  the  minds  of  his 
audience. 

Feeling  and  imagination  and  will  must  become 
intensified  passion  ere  the  inspired  utterance  can 
create  afresh  the  character  that  originally  sprang 
to  life  in  the  soul  of  the  poet 

Who  has  ever  thought  of  denying  the  original- 


28  THE  ART  OF   THE  ACTOR. 

ity  of  the  genius  of  those  great  masters  of  the 
sculptor's  art,  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  on  the  ground 
merely  that  they  copied  the  model  of  Homer's 
mind  ?  Do  we  look  with  a  feeling  of  secondary 
interest  on  Flaxman's  noble  illustrations  of  the 
bard  because  they  are  faithful  to  Homer  ?  When 
we  look  at  Retsch's  masterly  outlines  which  illus- 
trate the  plays  of  our  own  Homer,  the  Bard  of 
Avon,  do  we  think  of  saying,  "It  is  all  a  mere 
trick  of  imitative  art,  working  on  a  prescribed 
model"  ?  Is  not  the  wonderful  fidelity  of  those  ex- 
quisite drawings  to  that  model  their  great  charm  ? 
Is  it  not  because  we  see  Shakespeare  shining 
through  the  whole  that  we  accord  them  the  first 
rank  among  the  productions  of  modern  art? 

So  should  it  be  with  the  player.  He  is  to 
throw  his  whole  nature  so  copiously  into  the 
world  of  Shakespeare's  conception  that  the 
"molten  soul"  overflows  its  limits  and  infuses 
itself  into  the  hearts  of  his  audience. 

It  is  this  exuberance,  this  redundancy  of  feeling, 
which  transcends  the  mere  assimilative  function, 
that  stamps  the  true  actor  a  man  of  expressive 
genius  and  power.  This  is  the  art  not  merely  of 
receiving  Shakespeare's  inspiration,  but  of  giv- 
ing it  forth. 

True  artistic  expression,  in  whatever  form,  de- 
mands not  only  the  impulse  and  the  fire,  but  that 
"which  is  of  fervor  all  compact,"  the  creative 
power  of  genius ;  and  this  is  as  true  of  high 
cultured  tragic  personation  as  of  the  masterly 
delineations  of  poetry,  painting,  and  sculpture. 


THE    THEORY  OF  ACTING.  29 

The  dramatic  impersonator,  then,  is  success- 
ful in  his  art  in  proportion  as  he  represents  his 
author  by  becoming  absorbed  in  the  character 
delineated  by  the  poet.  I  do  not  mean  to  say, 
however,  that  the  actor  must  forget  his  own  iden- 
tity and  be  the  reality  of  the  part  he  acts ;  for  in 
that  case  a  bad  man  might  become  fit  company 
for  the  gods,  and  a  good  man  so  transform  him- 
self into  a  fiend  as  to  be  able  to  play  the  very 
devil.  Dr.  Johnson  said  the  same  thing  of  Gar- 
rick.  When  the  critics  said  that  great  actor 
was  Richard  himself,  his  reply  was,  "Then  my 
friend  Garrick  must  be  a  very  bad  man." 

The  genuine  artist  will  exhibit  in  his  represen- 
tations of  Shakespeare's  characters  the  great 
attributes  of  his  master's  expression — simplicity, 
nature,  and  truth — as  in  presenting  Milton's 
soaring  conception  of  Satan  (which  originally 
existed  in  its  author's  mind  embodied  in  a  dra- 
matic form)  he  would  portray  the  loftiness  of 
that  spirit  "not  lost,  in  loss  itself." 

From  these  imperfect  hints  may  be  inferred 
the  theory  of  acting  and  reading  which,  in  my 
view,  is  or  should  be  the  student's  guide.  To 
the  player  who  reflects  on  the  qualities  of  the 
various  authors  whom  his  profession  calls  him  to 
study,  Shakespeare,  the  great  model  of  his  art, 
stands  distinguished,  as  is  universally  admitted,  by 
his  perfectly  natural  manner,  whether  as  regards 
plot,  incident,  character,  or  language.  To  per- 
sonate Shakespeare,  then,  he  feels  that  he  must 
take  his  cue  from  Nature,  and  that  from  her  he 

3* 


30  THE   DANGER    OF  ERRING. 

must  receive  every  prompting  of  genuine  inspi- 
ration. 

Here,  however,  when  the  artist  has  schooled 
himself  out  of  rant  and  pantomimic  trick,  and 
every  other  prominent  vice  of  the  stage,  he 
needs  all  the  aid  of  a  just  and  critical  judgment ; 
he  is  in  danger  of  erring  in  one  of  several  direc- 
tions. Leaning  to  the  safe  side,  as  he  deems  it, 
of  a  just  exposition  of  his  author,  avoiding  the 
grossness  of  mere  stage-effects,  and  adhering 
strictly  to  his  text  in  a  merely  faithful  enuncia- 
tion of  its  words,  the  actor  fails  of  truth  and 
Nature,  ceases  to  personate,  and  sinks  into  a 
mere  elocutionist  and  declaimer.  "  Words,  words, 
words"  form  the  sum  and  substance  of  his  per- 
formance. But  the  heart  and  soul,  .of  which  the 
words  were  meant  to  be  the  medium,  are  not 
there.  No  aspiration  of  ardor  do  we  hear,  no 
tremulous  tone  of  heartfelt  emotion,  no  sob 
bursting  from  the  overcharged  bosom,  no  uncon- 
scious attitude  of  passion  do  we  see,  no  intuitive 
power  in  word,  look,  or  action  flashing  sympathy 
to  the  soul  of  the  spectator,  no  ecstasy  of  the 
whole  man. 

But  instead  of  these  qualities,  so  essential  to 
a  proper  dramatic  effect,  we  have  the  chilly  attri- 
butes of  paraded  precision  and  heartless  formality 
in  action  and  utterance. 

High  -  sounding  and  measured  declamation 
swells  out  the  text — correct  and  distinct,  it  may 
be,  indeed,  as  to  the  words,  but  deadened  to  every 
effect  of  spirit  and  expression.  In  such  counter- 


DRAMATIC  EXPRESSION.  31 

feit  presentment  of  human  passion  the  art  "  whose 
end  both  at  the  first  and  now  was  and  is  to  hold 
the  mirror  up  to  Nature,"  falls  down  to  the  mo- 
notonous delivery  of  a  sermonized  lecture  or  the 
recitation  of  a  school-boy's  task.  The  actor  who 
under  such  circumstances  imagines  he  is  adher- 
ing to  Nature  because  he  is  not  tearing  a  passion 
to  tatters,  has  formed  but  a  low  conception  of  the 
province  of  the  stage,  which  is  to  hit  off  life  itself, 
and  to  use  language  but  as  a  means  to  this  end. 

The  true  delineator,  in  order  to  give  proper 
effect  to  premeditated  speech,  must  observe  and 
employ  the  grace,  fitness,  and  power  of  utterance 
which  mark  the  flow  of  thought  and  rush  of  feel- 
ing when  language  springs  from  the  event  and 
circumstance  of  every-day  life. 

He  who  would  fill  others  with  the  fervor  of  his 
own  feelings  must  be  able  to  mark  his  language 
with  the  elements  of  expressive  vocality  and 
incisive  and  vehement  utterance.  Thus  only 
can  be  expressed  the  workings  of  the  soul  when 
distracted  with  conflicting  passions  or  driven 
to  despair  and  madness  by  outrageous  fortune. 
Every  thought  of  the  mind,  every  passion  of 
the  soul,  has  its  peculiar  quality  of  voice  and  its 
appropriate  mode  of  utterance. 

Dramatic  expression,  of  all  the  forms  of  speech, 
requires  a  profound  knowledge  of  such  natural 
effects,  as  well  as  the  practical  ability  to  employ 
them.  Truly,  from  the  Shakespearian  view,  the 
office  of  dramatic  reading  or  recitation  is  no  slight 
affair.  It  demands  a  clear  expression  of  every 


32  TRICKS   OF  PERSONAL   HABIT. 

word,  the  music  of  impassioned  feeling  in  every 
tone,  and  the  reality  of  life  in  every  look  and 
action ;  and  along  with  all  a  marked  individuality 
of  character,  emanating  from  the  conceptions  of 
the  performer,  but  divested  of  his  personality. 

By  such  means  only  can  the  hearer  be  trans- 
ported from  the  ignorant  present  of  actual  sur- 
rounding life  into  an  ideal  world  of  remotest  time 
and  space.  The  personal  traits  of  the  speaker 
or  reader  of  Shakespeare  when  obtruded  on  our 
notice  are  always  offensive,  because  they  break 
up  the  beautiful  illusion  which  the  drama  was 
meant  to  create.  No  such  falling  off,  however, 
is  so  chilling,  perhaps  ridiculous,  as  when  the 
great  historical  or  ideal  hero  of  a  piece  descends 
into  the  "tricks  of  habit"  by  which  we  recognize 
the  individual  in  his  relations  to  daily  life. 

Individuality  is  a  trait  inseparable  from  the 
efforts  of  genius,  and,  chastened  and  subdued 
into  its  proper  place  and  kept  subordinate  to 
the  display  of  the  author,  it  is  always  a  source 
of  pleasure.  But  the  cant  of  the  times  about 
naturalness,  originality,  and  creative  power  on 
the  stage  has  gone  nigh  to  tempt  the  player  to 
such  a  style  of  personation  as  appropriates  both 
the  stage  and  Shakespeare  to  himself,  and  swal- 
lows them  up  in  the  inordinate  self-esteem  of 
the  individual. 

Another  and  a  very  different  theory  of  acting 
is  exhibited  by  those  performers  who  wish,  as  it 
were,  to  inspire  the  author,  instead  of  being  in- 
spired by  him,  and  to  add  all  manner  of  stage- 


A    TRUE  IDEA    OF  NATURE.  33 

effects  to  sustain,  as  it  were,  the  character  and 
the  writer.  Players  of  this  class  are  prone  to 
the  fault  of  taking  a  character  in  Shakespeare  as 
they  would  an  outline  or  sketch  prescribed  in  a 
pantomime,  which  the  ingenuity  of  the  performer 
is  to  fill  up,  and  consider  language  merely  the 
vehicle  for  the  display  of  "stage-business,"  as  it 
is  technically  termed.  Hence  arise  those  melo- 
dramatic attitudes,  groupings,  and  tableaux  with 
which  modern  acting  abounds,  and  which  go  to 
make  up  the  attraction  of  some  individual  celeb- 
rity. From  such  a  perverted  and  vitiated  dra- 
matic taste  arise  those  unnaturally  natural,  famil- 
iar, and  coarse  effects  which  dispel  all  illusions 
and  destroy  all  ideal  harmony. 

The  term  Nature  is  one  of  vast  comprehension. 
It  has  widely  different  meanings,  according  to  the 
mental  character  of  the  individual  who  makes  use 
of  it.  Nature  in  a  picture  is,  with  one  man,  noth- 
ing but  "  Dutch  boors,  candlesticks,  and  cabbages;" 
with  another  it  is  all  nymphs,  temples,  and  wreath- 
ing garlands,  dancing  satyrs  and  hovering  cupids. 

A  true  idea  of  Nature — Nature  heightened  by 
the  inspiring  touch  of  ideal  beauty  and  perfec- 
tion— plain,  sincere  Nature,  raised  to  its  own 
highest  capability  by  the  hand  of  genius,  may  be 
found  in,  an  evening  scene  by  Claude,  where  act- 
ual objects,  faithfully  portrayed,  are  grouped  anew, 
mellowed  into  the  dim  golden  dusk  of  twilight, 
and  tinged  with  colors  in  the  very  act  of  fading 
into  the  coming  gloom  of  night. 

In  vain   do  we  look   for   Nature  in  mere  bald 


34  SHAKESPEARE'S  IDEA    OF  A   MAN. 

and  harsh  reality.  The  landscape  of  crag  and 
brake  and  sluggish  pool  is  naught  for  pictorial 
art  till  we  can  look  on  it  in  the  flush  of  sunrise 
or  in  the  lingering  glow  of  sunset.  In  vain  do 
we  look  for  Nature  in  the  narrow  scope  of  the 
mere  individual.  Divest  the  man  of  his  repre- 
sentative relation  to  all  humanity,  and  what  is 
he  worth  to  the  sculptor,  the  painter,  or  the  poet  ? 
He  sinks  into  an  unshapely  mass,  or  a  personal 
portrait  for  a  parlor  wall,  or  a  fit  subject  for  a 
pasquinade. 

How  different  from  Shakespeare's  idea  of  a 
man,  as  uttered  by  the  lips  of  Hamlet  when  he 
pours  out  his  filial  admiration  of  the  person  and 
presence  of  his  father! — 

See,  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow ; 
Hyperion's  curls;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination  and  a  form  indeed, 
Where  every  goo!  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man. 

A  fitting  illustration  of  Shakespeare's  ideal  of 
dramatic  action,  its  truth  to  Nature,  and  the  import- 
ance of  language  as  its  prime  element,  may  be 
found  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  (Act  I.,  Scene  iii. — 
the  Grecian  camp  before  Agamemnon's  tent),  where 
he  shows  us  plainly  his  contempt  for  the  unnatural 
and  barbarous  style  of  presentation  which  was  a 
prevalent  and  deforming  feature  of  the  acting  of 
his  own  time: 


••HIS  IDEAL    OF  DRAMATIC  ACTION.  35 

The  great  Achilles,  whom  opinion  crowns 

The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  host, 

Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame, 

Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 

Lies  mocking  our  designs  :  with  him  Patroclus 

Upon  a  lazy  bed  the  livelong  day 

Breaks  scurril  jests, 

And  with  ridiculous  and  awkward  action, 

Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls, 

He  pageants  us.     Sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 

Thy  topless  deputation  he  puts  on, 

And  like  a  strutting  player,  whose  conceit 

Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich  . 

To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 

'  Twixt  his  stretch  d  footing  and  the  scaffoldage, — 

Such  to-be-pitied,  and  tf  er-wrested  seeming 

He  acts  thy  greatness  in  :  and  when  he  speaks 

'Tis  like  a  chime  a-mending  ;  with  terms  unsquared, 

Which,  from  the  tongue  of  roaring  Typhon  dropp'd, 

Would  seem  hyperboles.     At  this  fusty  stuff 

The  large  Achilles,  on  his  press'd  bed  lolling, 

From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause ; 

Cries  "  Excellent !   'tis  Agamemnon  just. 

Now  play  me  Nestor ;  hem,  and  stroke  thy  beard, 

As  he  being  drest  to  some  oration." 

That's  done,  as  near  as  the  extremest  ends 

Of  parallels,  as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife : 

Yet  god  Achilles  still  cries  "Excellent ! 

'Tis  Nestor  right.     Now  play  him  me,  Patroclus, 

Arming  to  answer  in  a  night-alarm." 

And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age 

Must  be  the  scene  of  mirth  ;  to  cough  and  spit, 

And,  with  a  palsy  fumbling  on  his  gorget, 

Shake  in  and  out  the  rivet :  and  at  this  sport 

Sir  Valour  dies;  cries  "Oh,  enough,  Patroclus; 

Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel !     I  shall  split  all 

In  pleasure  of  my  spleen."     And  in  this  fashion. 

All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 


36        HAMLETS  ADVICE   TO    THE  PLAYERS. 

Severals  and  generals  of  grace  exact, 
Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions, 
Excitements  to  the  field,  or  speech  for  truce, 
Success  or  loss,  what  is  or  is  not,  serves 
As  stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

It  may,  I  think,  be  inferred  from  this  graphic 
portraiture  of  burlesque  and  bombast  that,  though 
it  was  common  to  his  fellows,  it  was  not  Shake- 
speare's mode  of  delineation,  and  hence  to  the 
marked  difference  in  his  style  of  acting  from  that 
of  his  fellow-actors  is  to  be  attributed  the  fact 
that  the  dramatist  was  not  considered  as  good  a 
performer  as  those  whom  the  groundlings  ap- 
plauded. In  fine,  Shakespeare  was  a  poet,  and 
knew  the  value  of  language  should  not  be  dis- 
counted by  the  exaggerations  of  the  actor. 

Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, 
trippingly  on  the  tongue:  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of 
your  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines. 
Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand,  thus,  but  use 
all  gently ;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say, 
the  whirlwind  of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  tem- 
perance that  may  give  it  smoothness.  Oh,  it  offends  me  to 
the  soul  to  hear  a  robustious,  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion 
to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings, 
who  for  the  most  part  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplicable 
dumb-shows  and  noise ;  I  would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped 
for  o'erdoing  Termagant ;  it  out-herods  Herod :  pray  you, 

avoid  it. 

FIRST  PLAYER. 

I  warrant  your  honor. 

HAMLET. 

Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be  your 
tutor :  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the  action ; 


EXAGGERATION  IN  ACTING.  37 

with  this  special  observance,  that  you  o'erstep  not  the  modesty 
of  Nature;  for  any  thing  so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of 
playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was,  and  is,  to 
hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  Nature;  to  show  Virtue  her 
own  feature,  Scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body 
of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure.  Now  this  overdone,  or 
come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but 
make  the  judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of  the  which  one  must 
in  your  allowance  o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others.  Oh, 
there  be  players  that  I  have  seen  play,  and  heard  others  praise, 
and  that  highly,  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  neither  having 
the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  pagan,  nor 
man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed  that  I  have  thought  some 
of  Nature's  journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made  them 
well,  they  imitated  humanity  so  abominably. 

FIRST  PLAYER. 
I  hope  we  have  reformed  that  indifferently  with  us,  sir. 

HAMLET. 

Oh,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those  that  play  your 
clowns  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for  them ;  for  there  be 
of  them,  that  will  themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity 
of  barren  spectators  to  laugh  too ;  though,  in  the  mean  time, 
some  necessary  question  of  the  play  be  then  to  be  considered. 
That's  villainous,  and  shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool 
that  uses  it. 

The  exaggerating  attempts,  under  false  ideas 
of  what  is  natural,  to  make  everything  in  dra- 
matic representation  seem  as  real  as  possible, 
proceed  upon  the  assumption  that  Nature  is 
found  only  in  the  actual  and  the  real,  while  the 
natural  in  expression  lies  ever  nearest  to  the 
ideal. 

In  attempting  to  make  what  in  stage-language 
is  called  a  "  point "  of  some  feature  of  bare  reality, 

4 


38  THE  ACTOR  AS  MACBETH. 

the  actor  is  liable  to  betray  a  tendency  to  man- 
nerism, because  in  striving  to  be  strictly  natural 
he  will  probably  exhibit  what  is  only  natural  to 
himself;  and  that  may  be  habit,  and  not  Nature. 

But  when,  on  the  other  hand,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  poetic  spirit,  he  aims  at  the  delineation 
of  some  image,  he  loses  self  in  the  picturing  of 
the  mind,  and  seems  "  breathless  as  we  grow  when 
feeling  most,"  wrapt  in  the  solemnity  of  dire  im- 
aginings, where  nothing  is  but  what  is  not,  or 
soaring  on  the  wings  of  aspiring  thought  "  to 
pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-faced  moon." 

From  such  mental  workings  emanates  the  per- 
fection of  expressive  power  in  the  utterance  of 
figurative  language,  and  not  from  the  cold  prompt- 
ings of  rationality  or  realism.  Let  us  for  a  mo- 
ment picture  to  ourselves  the  actor  of  Macbeth 
moving  and  speaking  under  such  influences  as  I 
have  attempted  to  describe,  and  we  may,  where 
he  is  under  the  sway  of  superstitious  dread,  feel 
in  his  utterances  the  very  form  and  semblance  of 
the  heaving  surges  of  destiny,  remorse,  and  de- 
spair. Such  impressions  are  made  on  the  mind 
of  the  hearer  for  the  reason  that  the  actor  has 
transformed  himself  for  the  time  being  into  a 
creature  of  the  poetic  world,  and  gives  out  his 
mental  conceptions  and  the  fervor  of  truth  poetic 
as  well  as  natural,  not  coloring  imagination  and 
fancy  in  the  material  hues  of  personal  mannerism. 

In  the  former  case,  as  before  stated,  the  truth 
of  the  effect  is  lost  in  the  too  palpable  attempt 
to  create  it  by  an  approach  to  reality ;  in  the  other 


READING   AND   ACTING    COMPARED.  39 

it  is  secured  and  heightened  by  the  fact  of  the 
external  giving  place  to  the  presence  and  power 
of  the  internal  working  of  the  soul. 

It  is  in  the  masterly  treatment  of  the  poetic 
element  of  the  drama  that  the  skilful  actor  dem- 
onstrates the  fact  that  the  truest  and  best  effects 
of  the  stage  are  such  as  come  nearest  to  the 
impressions  received  in  the  silent  reading  of 
Shakespeare  when  the  student  gives  himself  up 
to  thought.  Then  it  is,  as  Shakespeare  himself 
has  so  strongly  expressed  it,  the  brain,  wedded  to 
the  soul,  "begets  a  generation  of  still  breeding 
thoughts." 

It  must  be  conceded,  from  the  view  presented 
by  a  just  representation  of  the  Shakespearian 
drama,  that  the  actor  living,  moving,  and  speak- 
ing through  the  argument  of  the  play,  imperson- 
ating in  voice,  gait,  and  gesture  the  characters  as 
they  sprang  from  the  brain  of  the  Poet,  exhibits, 
when  within  the  bounds  of  proper  conception  and 
delivery,  a  more  graphic  and  satisfactory  delinea- 
tion of  Shakespeare  than  can  be  presented  by  a 
mere  reading  of  the  language,  however  true  to 
natural  expression  the  method  might  be.  The 
purely  intellectual  effect  which  a  studious  read- 
ing of  the  text  can  make  upon  a  cultivated  mind 
we  do  not  here  intend  to  call  in  question,  but 
merely  to  speak  of  that  indefinable  gratification 
which  is  enjoyed  when  the  imagination  fully  real- 
izes all  the  moving  incidents  of  dramatic  action 
and  all  the  impressive  features  of  living  character, 
native  and  to  the  dramatic  manner  born. 


40  SHAKESPEARE  IN   THE  STUDY. 

Such  effects  can  only  be  realized  in  the  mimic 
world  where  the  actor  moves  the  living  expositor 
of  the  Poet's  creative  faculty — where  the  looker- 
on  feels  the  heartstrings  vibrate  as  the  chords 
of  thought  and  passion  are  touched  by  the  soul 
in  the  voice,  while  he  yields  up  his  imagination 
to  be  moulded  by  the  magic  power  of  the  Poet, 
accepting  as  realities  the  ideas  which  assume  life 
and  shape  in  passing  through  the  subtle  alembic 
of  Shakespeare's  mind. 

Yet  when  we  compare  the  fleeting  effects  of 
the  stage  with  the  more  tangible  and  lasting 
impressions  of  recorded  language,  we  feel  that 
the  magnetic  influence  of  the  delineator's  voice, 
strong  as  was  its  hold  on  the  senses  of  the 
audience,  especially  in  Shakespeare's  time,  mak- 
ing the  mind  of  the  spectator  as  plastic  as  clay 
in  the  hands  of  the  potter, — even  then,  we  say, 
the  actor's  power  was  not  the  supreme  attraction 
which  made  Shakespeare's  name  as  familiar  to 
the  playgoing  public  as  a  household  word.  Nor 
was  it  the  actor  and  his  art  at  any  time  which 
built  up  the  imperishable  glory  of  the  Bard  of 
Avon.  His  inimitable  language,  his  fancy  and 
imagination,  are  the  foundation  of  his  fame. 
Those  who  gave  vitality  in  the  author's  time  to 
his  lines  repose  within  the  silent  chambers  of  the 
past,  their  names  almost  forgotten. 

Garrick,  whose  acting  was  falsely  reputed  as 
adding  lustre  to  the  glories  of  a  Hamlet  and  a 
Lear,  lives  only  in  the  praise  of  those  who  paint 
him  as  the  once  greatest  actor.  Mrs.  Siddons, 


THE  POET  IMMORTAL.  41 

whose  expressive  tones  swept  the  whole  gamut 
of  human  joy  and  woe, — she  too  is  known  only 
as  the  Tragic  Queen  that  was. 

Like  the  echoes  of  Tennyson's  "  Bugle  Song," 
the  dramatic  voices  of  the  olden  time  have  paled 
and  died  away,  never  to  be  heard  again,  while 
the  echoes  of  Shakespeare's  immortal  strains  roll 
on  from  soul  to  soul  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

4* 


CHAPTER   II. 
IMITATION  AND  MIMICRY. 

TN  justice  to  myself  and  to  my  profession,  I 
-*-  would  impress  upon  the  minds  of  my  readers 
the  fact  that  it  is  entirely  foreign  to  the  purpose  of 
this  presentation  to  ridicule  any  of  the  performers 
whose  mannerisms  I  have  considered  proper  sub- 
jects for  illustration.  My  aim  is  to  recall  to  the 
minds  of  those  familiar  with  the  subject  the  pecu- 
liarities or  vocal  eccentricities  which  have  rendered 
the  style  of  certain  actors  remarkable,  and  to  en- 
able those  who  may  not  have  seen  the  originals  to 
form  some  idea  of  their  manner  of  acting,  or  at 
least  of  reading;  for,  without  intending  to  confine 
myself  to  matters  concerning  the  elocution  of  the 
stage,  it  is  mainly  the  manner  of  reading  among 
actors  that  I  shall  comment  upon  and  in  which  I 
am  most  interested. 

To  the  mere  acting  of  the  stage — that  is,  the 
personal  bearing,  modes  of  action  and  gesture — 
I  shall  only  refer  in  a  passing  way ;  such  being 
the  mere  physical  attributes  of  performers,  and  of 
less  importance  to  the  public  than  the_rnore  intel- 
lectual qualities  of  voice  and  speech.  In  that  de- 
partment the  profession  was  once  considered  a 

42 


IMITATION   OF  POPULAR   ACTORS.  43 

model ;  how  it  is  now  I  leave  the  public  to 
decide.* 

In  introducing  these  illustrative  sketches  of 
actors  I  find  it  expedient  to  disregard  the  unities 
of  time  in  the  histrionic  record,  in  order  to  bring 
within  a  reasonable  limit  the  most  effective  ele- 
ments of  my  subject;  that  is,  to  string  together 
some  instructive  ideas  concerning  traits  of  the 
spoken  language  of  the  stage,  together  with  pro- 
fessional incidents,  entertaining  and  amusing  in 
their  nature,  but  carefully  guarded  from  a  spirit 
of  detraction  or  malevolence. 

One  of  the  peculiar  features  of  the  stage  is  the 
almost  universal  custom  of  adopting,  or  striving-  to 
imitate,  the  personal  traits  of  vocal  quality  or  the 
articulative  habits  of  some  popular  actor.  It  is 
remarkable  that  during  certain  periods  or  theat- 
rical cycles  the  generality  of  young  actors  have 
been  imitators  or  followers  of  some  favorite  ce- 
lebrity. 

From  Betterton's  time  down  to  the  present,  the 
regular  links  of  the  dramatic  chain  of  professional 
mannerism  can  be  formed  into  groups  distin- 
guished for  the  sameness  of  their  vocal  mechan- 
ism, while  they  bear  unmistakable  marks  of  a 
strongly-contrasted  opposite  character. 

A  century  ago  elocution  of  a  declamatory  style 
was  the  prevailing  dramatic  tone,  but,  yielding  to 
the  changes  of  fashion,  it  gradually  assumed  the 
form  of  what  was  termed  natural  speech ;  which 

*  John  Walker  and  Thomas  Sheridan*  the  lexicographers,  were  dramatic 
performers,  the  latter  especially  of  distinguished  reputation. 


44  TRADITIONS   OF   THE  STAGE. 

in  its  turn,  at  the  dictate  of  novelty,  became  ec- 
centric, and,  however  paradoxical  it  may  appear, 
unnatural.  Of  late  years  the  elocution  of  the 
English  and  American  stage,  with  but  few  excep- 
tions, has  been,  no  matter  how  offensive  the  term 
may  be  considered,  rather  a  matter  of  instinct 
than  the  result  of  intelligent  vocal  culture. 

The  traditions  of  the  stage  have  arbitrarily 
determined  the  kind  of  voice  and  the  mode  of 
speech  appropriate  to  the  villain,  the  hero,  and 
the  lover.  Shakespeare  ridicules  this  tendency 
among  the  actors  of  his  time  when  he  makes 
Bottom,  the  amateur  actor,  affirm  that  he  prefers 
a  tyrant's  part,  because  he  can  then  speak  in  "  the 
Ercles  vein  " — that  is,  "  tear  a  cat  and%  make  all 
split" — while  as  a  lover  he  would  speak  in  a 
"  monstrous  little  voice."  The  fashion  still  exists ; 
that  is,  that  each  character  should  have  a  distinct- 
ive quality  of  voice  and  mode  of  utterance  pecu- 
liar to  itself,  thus  ignoring  the  fact  that  every 
passion  of  the  human  soul  has  its  own  vocal 
sign,  dictated  by  natural  laws  and  common  to 
the  human  race,  and  that  every  emotion  and 
passion  has  also  a  conventional  verbal  sign. 

Therefore,  all  natural  expression  depends  upon 
the  proper  blending  of  the  vocal  sign  with  the 
words  used  to  express  the  mental  state  of  the 
speaker ;  and  hence  it  will  be  seen  that  every 
person,  though  marked  by  peculiarity  of  utter- 
ance (the  result  of  habit),  should  use  an  intona- 
tion and  a  quality  of  voice,  as  before  affirmed, 
common  to  all  in  the  utterance  of  impassioned 


THE  STAGE  VOICE.  45 

language.  But,  instead  of  observing  this  law, 
the  actor  in  many  cases  seems  to  have  accepted 
certain  freaks  and  fancies  of  speech  for  the  true 
natural  signs,  as  the  Hudibrastic  astronomer  was 
misled  by  the  accident  of  the  kite's  tail  flashing 
across  his  telescopic  vision,  and  so  mistook  a 
lantern  for  a  luminary. 

Every  new  star  is  supposed  to  have  received 
a  special  revelation  from  Nature,  which  if  not,  as 
the  scholar  says,  "the  divine  afflatus,"  has  at 
least  the  traditionally  divine  ring  of  the  dramatic 
metal.  Wherefore,  it  is  considered  imperative 
that  the  natural  voice  of  the  actor,  if  he  happens 
to  have  one,  must  be  permeated  with  the  flavor 
of  the  stage.  No  matter  how  much  his  unaffect- 
ed vocality  may  possess  of  clear  resonance  and 
beauty,  it  must  be  colored  and  toned  to  the  re- 
quirements of  a  fictitious  standard  ordained  and 
enforced  by  the  oracles  of  the  dramatic  temple ; 
therefore,  almost  all  the  actors  and  readers  of  the 
present  day  have  their  unmistakable  archetypes 
in  Liston,  Kemble,  Mathews,  and  Kean,  the 
Keeleys,  Buckstone,  the  elder  Booth,  Fanny 
Kemble,  and  Ellen  Tree.  These  performers,  in 
turn,  but  copied  the  various  manners  of  voice 
in  vogue  at  the  time  in  which  they  were  taking 
their  first  steps  in  the  profession. 

Sir  William  Davenant  received  from  Taylor,  who 
acted  Hamlet  under  the  direction  of  Shakespeare, 
the  manner  of  reading,  the  stage-business,  and 
other  particulars  concerning  the  performance  of 
the  play  common  in  the  author's  time.  Davenant 


46  VOCAL   IMITATION. 

imparted  the  knowledge  he  derived  from  Taylor 
to  Betterton,  and  to  that  fine  old  actor  such  per- 
formers as  Barton  Booth  owed  that  professional 
knowledge  which  enabled  them  to  hand  down  to 
their  posterity  the  traditions  of  the  stage.  But, 
like  the  tones  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  syllables, 
the  voices  of  the  old  Shakespearian  players,  with 
all  their  modes  and  forms,  have  vanished  into  air ; 
yet  the  tones  of  the  glorious  old  sugarloaf-headed 
Poet — as  S.  S.  Prentiss,  the  poetic  orator  of  the 
South,  used  to  style  him — still  live  in  his  immortal 
verse,  which  all  can  reproduce  who  care  to  seek  in 
Nature  for  the  true  vocality  common  to  all  our 
race. 

As  an  illustrative  instance  of  the  same  tendency 
to  reproduce  vocal  impressions  on  this  side  of  the 
water,  we  refer  to  Mr.  Forrest,  whose  peculiar 
intonations  are  duplicated  all  over  the  country — 
not  only  on  the  stage,  but  also  in  many  individ- 
uals in  private  life,  who  have  sacrificed  their  own 
vocal  individuality  to  adopt  the  deep  chest-tones 
of  America's  first  distinguished  tragedian. 

As  before  stated,  such  tendencies  are  not  con- 
fined to  the  stage,  for  Shakespeare's  quick  insight 
into  the  habits  of  mankind  gives  us  an  instance 
of  this  proneness  to  follow  fashions.  Lady  Percy, 
speaking  of  her  dead  lord — Hotspur,  as  he  was 
commonly  called — says  of  his  honor, 

It  stuck  upon  him  as  the  sun 

In  the  gray  vault  of  heaven  ;  and  by  his  light 

Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 

To  do  brave  acts ;  he  was  indeed  the  glass 


OLD-TIME  MANNERISMS.  47 

Wherein  the  noble  youth  did  dress  themselves; 

He  had  no  legs  that  practised  not  his  gait ; 

And  speaking  thick — which  Nature  made  his  blemish — 

Became  the  accents  of  the  valiant ; 

For  those  that  could  speak  low  and  tardily, 

Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse 

To  seem  like  him  ;  so  that,  in  speech,  in  gait, 

In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 

In  military  rules,  humors  of  blood, 

He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book, 

That  fashioned  others. 

Before  Garrick's  time  the  English  stage  was 
marked  by  a  mannerism  which  belonged  to  "  the 
fashion  of  the  day."  A  lingering  relic  of  the  old 
chanting  tone  of  the  Church  affected  the  prevail- 
ing style  of  actors  and  orators,  but  was  particu- 
larly observable  in  the  collegians'  ideal  of  Greek 
and  Roman  oratorical  dignity  as  illustrated  in  their 
declamations. 

The  Puritans  droned  through  the  nose,  and 
spoke  in  curt  and  formal  tones,  while  the  more 
cheerful  Cavaliers  assumed  a  nonchalant  or  gay 
method  of  speech,  sometimes  brisk  and  even  bois- 
terous ;  while  in  the  court-circles  conversational 
tones  were  tinctured  with  a  certain  kind  of  finical 
softness,  the  unmistakable  characteristic  of  the 
courtier's  speech.  In  one  of  Beaumont  and  Fletch- 
er's plays  the  following  lines  express  the  courtier's 
attributes : 

Love  those  that  love  good  fashions, 

Good  clothes  and  rich ;  they  invite  men  to  admire  'em 

That  speak  the  lisp  of  the  court* 

Oh,  'tis  great  learning  ! 


48  INTONATION  OF  ENGLISH  ACTORS. 

To  ride  well,  dance  well,  sing  well,  or  whistle  courtly, 
They're  rare  endowments. 


Miss  Kemble  (afterward  Mrs.  Siddons),  in  her 
first  interview  with  Mr.  Garrick,  was  complimented 
by  that  manager  for  not  having  the  regular  "  tie- 
tum-tie,"  or  "old  song-like  tune,"  of  the  stage. 
Again,  it  is  recorded  that  Henderson,  the  great 
rival  of  Kemble,  when  quite  a  young  man  was 
told  by  Garrick  that  he  had  too  much  "  wool  or 
worsted"  in  his  voice  to  suit  the  area  of  Drury 
Lane's  auditorium ;  meaning  that  his  voice  was 
too  much  muffled  or  veiled  by  his  stage-elocution, 
and  lacked  clearness  and  other  penetrative  quali- 
ties; in  short,  that  his  utterance  was  not  natural — 
not  exercised  in  conformity  with  natural  vocal 
laws,  and  consequently  inefficient  in  the  expres- 
sion of  thought  and  passion  as  they  should  be 
presented  in  dramatic  action. 

During  my  apprenticeship  in  the  Southern  the- 
atres as  far  back  as  1830,  I  was  impressed  with 
this  peculiar  intonation,  which  was  exhibited  in  a 
remarkable  manner  by  some  of  the  old  English 
actors  of  the  theatres  in  which  I  performed.  It 
was  a  regular  rise  and  fall  of  the  voice,  in  a  kind 
of  declining  run,  gradually  diminishing  to  the  close 
of  the  line,  recommencing  on  the  next,  and  so 
continuing  till  the  monotony  became,  to  my  ear  at 
least,  exceedingly  tiresome.  The  emphatic  words 
were  marked  with  extended  and  repeated  waves 
or  swelling  prolongations  of  sound,  resembling 
the  effects  often  observable  in  the  reading  of  the 


THE   "TEAPOT"    STYLE    OF  ACTING.  49 

church-service.  The  gestures  used  were  of  the 
same  measured  formality  as  the  movements  of  the 
voice,  and  their  combined  effects  produced  what 
was  termed,  by  the  younger  members  of  the  pro- 
fession, "  the  old  teapot  style  of  acting ; "  which 
simply  meant  one  hand  on  the  hip,  the  other  ex- 
tended and  moving  in  curved  lines,  with  a  gradual 
descent  to  the  side.  When  the  speaker  was  tired 
of  this  he  simply  changed  his  attitude  by  throwing 
the  weight  of  the  body  on  the  opposite  leg  and 
going  through  the  same  routine  of  gesture. 

Here  may  be  detected  a  likeness  to  that  old- 
time  system  of  ease  and  elegance  in  studied  de- 
portment which  Mr.  Dickens  hits  off  so  admirably 
in  his  well-known  character  of  Turveydrop.* 

From  the  remark  made  by  Mr.  Garrick  concern- 
ing the  professional  "  tie-tum-tie"  or  sjng-song 
tendency,  we  may  infer  that  his  own  style  must 
have  been  free  from  any  such  chanting  uniformity. 

The  more  liable  the  personal  manner  of  an 
actor  is  to  be  mimicked,  the  more  he  is  subjected 
to  a  suspicion  of  non-conformity  to  the  laws  gov- 
erning natural  speech.  All  the  vocal  signs  of 
thought,  emotion,  and  passion — constituting  quality 

*  John  B.  Rice,  Esq.,  who  made  his  first  appearance  as  an  actor  in  Phila- 
delphia about  the  time  of  my  own  advent,  had  been  trained  at  school  in 
this  old  declamatory  style  of  speaking,  and  before  he  broke  himself  of  its 
habits  was  called  "  Walker  Elocution  Rice."  This  gentleman,  however,  in 
the  fulness  of  his  theatrical  career  was  better  known  by  the  titles  of  mana- 
ger, mayor,  and  Congressman,  for  after  acquiring  a  fortune  as  a  manager  in 
Chicago  he  was  elected  three  times  mayor  of  that  city,  and  finally,  on  an 
exceptionally  honorable  record,  was  chosen  member  for  Congress.  He  died 
at  Washington,  D.  C.,  while  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  in  the  House  of 
Representatives. 

5  D 


50  IMITATION  AND   MIMICRY. 

of  voice,  elevation  and  depression  of  pitch,  abrupt- 
ness or  evenness  in  force,  rapidity  or  deliberation 
in  movement, — all  these  distinctly  different  parts 
of  expressive  utterance  are  the  common  attributes 
of  spoken  language,  and  are  exercised  more  or 
less  by  all  orators,  actors,  and  readers.  Yet,  in 
consequence  of  a  difference  in  the  temperaments 
of  human  beings,  these  constituent  elements  of 
speech  are  practised  by  different  persons  in  vary- 
ing and  modifying  degrees,  each  individual  fixing 
his  own  habits  of  utterance,  which  stamp  him 
among  his  familiars  as  differing  from  his  neigh- 
bors. 

Hence  it  will  be  seen  that  any  strongly-marked 
peculiarity  observable  in  a  speaker  distinguishes 
him  from  others  just  in  proportion  to  the  prom- 
inence and  extent  of  the  peculiarity ;  and  it  is 
evident  that  any  unusual  or  eccentric  mode  of 
speech  will  be  the  salient  point  seized  upon  by 
the  imitator  or  mimic,  either  to  create  a  laugh 
at  the  expense  of  the  person  or  to  give  a  more 
pleasing  impression  of  his  manner.  The  former 
method  indicates  the  mimic ;  the  latter,  the  im- 
itator. 

There  is  a  much  greater  distinction  existing 
between  the  qualities  of  imitation  and  mimicry 
than  may  strike  the  superficial  observer.  Prop- 
erly speaking,  when  we  take  great  and  virtuous 
actions  for  our  models  we  imitate  them.  It  was 
said  in  olden  times  that  heroic  actions  were  imi- 
tations of  the  gods.  And  again  it  has  been  said 
that  we  ape  the  manners  of  those  above  us,  while 


FAULTS  EASILY  REPRODUCED.  51 

it  is  common  to  say  the  monkey  mimics  the  man. 
From  this  it  must  be  conceded  that  imitation  is 
a  more  intellectual  effort  than  mimicry. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  imitate  the  natural  qual- 
ities of  an  actor's  voice  than  it  is  to  reproduce 
his  mere  mannerisms ;  while  to  mimic  his  defects 
is  within  the  reach  of  a  very  ordinary  gift.  An 
actor  who  imitates  another — that  is,  one  who 
adopts  another's  style  as  his  own — is  more  likely 
to  reproduce  the  faults  than  the  perfections  of  his 
model.  Blemishes,  being  more  striking,  impress 
themselves  more  forcibly  than  beauties,  the  ap- 
preciation of  which  requires  a  more  delicate  and 
intelligent  perception.  Imitation  generally  exag- 
gerates defects  in  order  to  make  them  apparent 
to  the  minds  of  those  to  -whom  they  are  pre- 
sented ;  -and  by  the  same  rule  a  coloring  is  given 
to  points  of  excellence  in  order  to  make  them 
effective.  So  the  unnatural  imperfections  of  .an 
actor's  style  may  readily  be  imitated,  while  it 
would  be  difficult  to  reproduce  the  natural  beau- 
ties of  his  delivery. 

By  a  misplaced  or  oft-repeated  use  of  some 
favorite  form  of  expression,  or  by  some  pecu- 
liarity of  accent  or  pronunciation,  an  earnest 
speaker  may  produce  unpleasant  monotony,  or 
even  grotesque  results  susceptible  of  caricature, 
and  thus  afford  the  mimic  an  opportunity  of  cre- 
ating ridicule.  This  may  easily  be  accomplished 
by  the  mocker  from  a  habit  which  gives  him  a 
ready  command  over  the  organs  of  speech. 

But   the    most   palpable   hits,   the   most  enjoy- 


52  "  TAKING  OFF"  PERSONAL   TRAITS. 

able  with  an  average  audience,  are  made  by 
seizing  on  some  deformity  of  manner  or  some 
extravagant  mode  of  speech — some  mincing  nice- 
ty, affected  grandeur  of  tone,  musical  cadence,  or 
other  marked  style  of  intonation.  And  such  a 
burlesque  imitation  may  be  made  by  persons 
wholly  unable  to  read  correctly  a  single  sentence 
in  their  own  way. 

Thus  much  for  the  principles  of  imitation  in 
speech.  And  now  let  us  glance  at  the  means  of 
"taking  off,"  as  it  is  termed,  the  personal  traits 
of  physical  singularity. 

The  mimic  finds  his  strongest  point  in  observ- 
ing and  reproducing  in  extravagant  form  some 
characteristic  gesture  or  posture,  perhaps  a  sway- 
ing of  the  body,  a  shake  of  the  head,  or  it  may 
be  a  drawing  back  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
protruding  the  lips,  depressing  the  chin,  or  ob- 
structing the  free  use  of  the  lower  jaw  and 
constricting  the  muscular  action  of  the  larynx ; 
all  of  which  peculiar  movements  are  the  legiti- 
mate means  of  producing  the  varied  effects  of  a 
marked  quality  of  voice.  They  are  the  proper 
agents,  when  used  understandingly,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  expressing  the  various  emotions  of  the 
speaker's  mind.  But  when  such  marked  vocal 
means  are  used  unwittingly,  or  suffered  to  color 
die  current  of  continuous  discourse  from  choice, 
they  become  stumbling  blocks  in  the  way  of  true 
expression. 

Mr.  Charles  Mathews  the  Elder,  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  mimics  of  the  English  stage, 


THE  ELDER  MA  THEWS.  ,          53 

availed  himself  of  all  such  accessories  of  his  art, 
and  produced  his  effects  in  a  perfectly  artistic 
manner.  By  tying  a  handkerchief  over  his  head 
in  different  ways,  drawing  up  his  coat-collar  be- 
hind, or  by  brushing  his  hair  back  from  his  face  or 
up  in  what  was  termed  the  "  cock's-comb  style," 
he  presented  a  laughable  portraiture  without  the 
assistance  of  vocal  idiosyncrasies.  A  working 
of  the  brows,  a  wink  of  the  eye,  a  twist  of  the 
mouth,  or  dropping  of  the  chin, — each  or  any  of 
these  tricks,  variously  adapted  to  his  ever-chang- 
ing modes  and  qualities  of  voice,  was  sure  to 
start  a  laugh  upon  the  most  stony  face ;  and 
when  to  all  this  was  added  his  exquisite  wit,  no 
one  could  withstand  the  fun  of  the  laugh-pro- 
voking gentleman. 

Mr.  Mathews  has  had  many  imitators,  and,  as 
far  as  grimace  and  sheer  buffoonery  go,  aided 
by  "  shocking  bad "  hats,  grotesque  coat-collars, 
and  dreadfully  exaggerated  spectacles,  they  have 
produced  considerable  merriment ;  but  they  lacked 
the  crowning  point  of  the  mimetic  art,  which  with 
him  consisted  in  a  thorough  knowledge  of,  and  con- 
trol over,  the  causative  mechanism  of  the  voice, 
by  which  he  was  enabled  to  mimic  everybody  and 
entirely  obscure  his  own  identity. 

In  connection  with  this  subject  I  will  mention 
a  remarkable  case  where  it  will  be  difficult  to 
draw  the  line  of  demarcation  which  I  have  stated 
as  existing  between  mimicry  and  imitation.  Half 
a  century  ago,  among  the  celebrities  of  Philadel- 
phia, Dr.  C was  distinguished  not  only  for 

5  * 


54          •      DR.    C OF  PHILADELPHIA. 

his  well-known  professional  ability,  but  for  his  wit 
and  story-telling  propensities.  He  had  what  is 
termed  a  cleft  palate,  and  his  voice  was  affect- 
ed, as  is  usual  in  such  cases.  This  peculiarity 
of  speech  gave  great  point  to  his  story-telling 
accomplishments,  and  made  them  still  more  con- 
spicuous.* On  the  first  appearance  of  the  elder 
,  Mr.  Mathews  in  this  country,  and  while  engaged  in 
Philadelphia  in  one  of  his  "  Budget  performances," 
he  introduced  an  imitation  of  the  doctor  by  relat- 
ing one  of  the  stories  he  had  heard  him  tell  in 
private ;  the  audience  was  taken  by  surprise,  and 
applauded  the  actor's  joke  and  the  doctor's  story 
"to  the  top  of  its  bent."  When  Mr.  Mathews 
was  encored  he  came  forward  and  said,  in  the 
peculiar  manner  of  the  doctor,  "  Ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen :  I  am  constrained  to  say  that  it  is  bad 
enough  to  be  subjected  to  Mr.  Mathews'  imita- 
tion, but'  it  is  still  worse  to  find  my  fellow-citizens 
are  anxious  to  have  a  second  dose  of  it." 

This  by   no   means  decreased  the  amount  of 
laughter,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar  it  was 

*  The  following  witty  play  upon  words  is  said  to  have  been  made  by 

Dr.  C after  dining  with  some  gentlemen  at  a  hotel.      While  sitting 

over  the  wine  and  cigars  the  gentlemen  had  formed  themselves  into 
groups  ;  at  one  end  of  the  table  the  doctor  was  the  attraction,  while  at 

the  other  was  a  gentleman  who  was  familiarly  known  as  Sam .     He 

had  been  called  on  to  sing.  Another  person  had  been  asked  to  confer 
the  like  favor  on  the  group  where  the  doctor  sat.  Without  knowing 
their  mutual  intent,  the  two  gentlemen  raised  their  voices  at  the  same 
moment.  This  of  course  caused  both  to  desist ;  at  which  the  doctor  rose 
and  said,  "  Oh,  of  course  the  gentleman  at  the  head  of  the  table  has  the 
precedence;  besides,"  said  he,  pointing  in  that  direction,  "  I  would  rather 
hear  psalm-  (Sam)  singing,"  and  then  pointing  to  the  party  at  his  own  end 
o»f  the  table,  "than  hymn-  (him)  singing." 


MATHEWS' S  IRRITABILITY.  55 

found  that  one  of  the  audience  (a  well-known 
and  influential  merchant,  advanced  in  years)  had 
gone  off  into  laughing  hysterics.  He  was  car- 
ried home,  and  laid  upon  the  floor  in  one  of  his 
parlors  in  a  terrible  state  of  spasmodic  laughter, 
totally  unable  to  control  himself. 

His  physician,  Dr.  C ,  was  sent  for,  and 

speedily  came.  Upon  seeing  his  patient  he  ex- 
claimed, in  his  usually  brusque  manner,  "  You 
infernal  old  jackass !  what  are  you  braying  about 
in  this  obstreperous  manner?"  Whereupon  the  pa- 
tient, rolling  over  on  the  floor,  cried  out  between 
the  paroxysms,  "  Oh,  take  him  away !  take  him  away! 
or  I  shall  die  with  laughing !"  Shakespeare  says, 
"  One  fire  burns  out  another's  burning,"  etc. 

The  story  was  soon  told,  at  which  the  doctor 
set  to  laughing  in  a  most  boisterous  manner, 
causing  a  revulsion  in  the  state  of  the  patient, 
who  thereupon  fell  to  crying,  and  in  good  time 
was  put  to  bed,  while  the  doctor  sought  an  early 
opportunity  of  getting  even  with  the  laughter- 
loving  player  who  had  taken  him  off,  and  nearly 
done  for  his  patient  by  taking  him  off  too. 

One  morning,  in  company  with  Mr.  Mathews, 
I  was  rehearsing  a  farce  of  his  in  which  there 
are  only  two  characters.  He  was  suffering  from 
rheumatism,  and  not  at  all  in  an  amiable  mood. 
The  smoke  from  the  burning  of  some  greasy 
matter  found  its  way  to  the  stage,  at  which 
Mr.  Mathews  cried  out  petulantly,  "Oh  dear! 
oh  dear!  what's  that?  Now  that's  unbearable! 
Such  a  stench  !  Where  can  it  come  from  ?  Poh  ! 


5 6  MA  THE  WS'S  "£  VENINGS  A  T  HOME." 

poh!"  I  told  him  the  stage-carpenter  lived  in  the 
back  part  of  the  theatre,  and  I  supposed  the  odor 
came  from  the  kitchen.  "  Ah,  ah,  that's  it !  that's 
it — '  beefsteak  done  brown.1  You  Americans  don't 
know  how  to  cook ;  you  burn  everything  up. 
You  know  the  old  story  :  '  Heaven  sends  meat — 
the  devil  sends  cooks.'  Hey  ?  hey  ?"  I  laughed, 
and  we  went  on  rehearsing.  However,  I  had  the 
better  part  of  the  laugh — "  in  my  sleeve,"  as  the 
saying  is — for  I  knew  the  property-man  was  burn- 
ing his  lamp-rags  under  the  stage  (we  had  no  gas 
then,  but  used  fish  oil),  and  the  smell  that  had 
offended  our  olfactories  was  something  widely  dif- 
ferent from  the  cooking  of  a  beefsteak.  Consid- 
ering the  Englishman's  proverbially  "  rare  taste," 
this  did  no  credit  to  his  sense  of  smell. 

Mr.  Charles  Mathews,  Jr.,  in  speaking  of  ner- 
vousness, told  me  he  considered  his  father  a  per- 
fect martyr  to  his  profession.  "  For,"  said  he, 
"his  anxiety  to  have  things  'just  right,'  to  hit  the 
exact  effect  so  squarely  as  to  leave  nothing  to  be 
questioned,  grew,  with  his  advancing  years,  to  be 
little  less  than  a  disease.  He  would  spend  day 
after  day  and  week  after  week  rehearsing  'the 
business '  of  a  new  entertainment,  and  when  the 
night  came  no  novice  ever  suffered  more  fearful 
anxiety  at  a  first  appearance  than  did  this  veteran 
of  a  'thousand  engagements.'!  At  the  opening 
of  one  of  his  'Evenings/  called  'At  Home,'"  said 
my  informant,  "while  I  was  in  front  noticing  the 
'  effects,'  I  observed  an  old-fashioned,  comfortable 
kind  of  man,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  who 


A  SLEEPY  "OLD  MUFF."  57 

occupied  a  conspicuous  place,  having  his  silk 
handkerchief  flattened  like  a  pancake  on  his  bald 
head.  Very  soon  his  eyes  closed  and  he  settled 
himself  back  in  the  seat  for  a  snooze.  '  Now,' 
said  I  to  myself,  'if  father  observes  this  napping 
chap,  there  will  be  Old  Scratch  to  pay;'  and,  sure 
enough,  he  did  find  out  the  delinquent,  and  there- 
upon began  to  talk  at  the  man,  and  to  fidget,  fuss, 
and  splutter  to  such  an  extent  that  I  thought  he 
would  certainly  'get  out  in  his  words,'  How- 
ever," continued  Mr.  Mathews,  <4he  got  through 
the  first  part,  and  I  went  '  behind '  to  see  how  he 
was  getting  along ;  but,  oh  dear !  such  a  state  of 
irritability  as  I  found  him  in  I  cannot  describe. 
He  burst  out  with,  '  Did  you  ever  see  such  an 
exhibition  ?' — '  Why,  it  was  a  perfect  success/  I 
replied. — *  No,  no,  no  !'  said  my  father.  '  Charles  ! 
Charles!  I  tell  you  he  will  be  the  death  of  me, 
that  old  muff  with  his  handkerchief  slipping  over 
his  eyes  and  his  head  nid-nodding  like  a  plaster 
image  on  a  mantel.  Oh,  it's  dreadful !  I  can't  go 
on,  Charles,  unless  you  stop  him,  turn  him  out, 
or  abolish  him.  He'll  destroy  me !  he'll  destroy 
everything !'  I  therefore  went  in  front,  and  found 
an  opportunity  to  get  at  the  old  gentleman  be- 
fore the  curtain  rose  again,  and  told  him  he  would 
oblige  me  if  he  would  not  go  to  sleep.  At  which 
he  began  in  the  most  pathetic  manner  to  express 
his  regrets,  saying,  in  a  way  which  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  audience,  'Why,  is  it  possible 
that  I  annoyed  my  dear  old  friend  Mr.  Mathews  ? 
Why,  I  am  sorry  indeed  ;  I  can  never  forgive  my- 


5  A   LAUGHING   HYENA. 

self  for  such  a  thing-.  To  be  sure  I  will  keep  awake. 
I  really  am  ashamed  that  I  should  be  guilty  of 
falling  asleep  while  my  old  friend  was  being  so 
funny.  Never  fear,  sir;  I'll  keep  awake,  sir!' 

"  All  things  being  ready,  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
second  part,  'and  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage- 
bell/  But  oh,  terrible  to  relate,  the  old  muff,  now 
fully  aroused  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  awake, 
and,  I  have  no  doubt,  alive  to  the  fun  which  was 
shaking  the  sides  of  the  audience,  began  to  laugh 
until  he  at  length  made  himself  'the  observed  of 
all  observers.'  You  must  see,  of  course,  that  this 
threw  things  'out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire/ 
as  the  old  saying  has  it.  For  father,  more  dis- 
gusted now  than  ever,  began  to  show  unmistak- 
able signs  of  a  disturbing  element  in  his  acting 
which  threatened  an  explosion  ;  and  not  until  the 
curtain  fell  was  I  free  from  the  apprehension  that 
he  would  (unable  to  bear  the  infliction)  cry  out, 
'  I'll  give  five  pounds  to  anybody  who  will  choke 
that  laughing  hyena  or  carry  him  out!'  How- 
ever, the  performance  came  to  an  end  without 
such  a  disaster  taking  place,  while  father's  good- 
nature, after  the  excitement  had  passed  off,  found 
real  enjoyment  and  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  sleepy 
'  old  muff/  with  the  red  bandanna  handkerchief  for 
a  wig,  whose  nid-nodding  had  nearly  turned  the 
tables  on  the  comedian,  by  causing  him  to  choke 
with  anger  when  he  was  striving  to  convulse 
others  with  merriment,  and  who  had  afterward 
set  the  audience  in  a  roar  by  out-laughing  the 
laughers." 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  PLAYERS  OF  A   HUNDRED   YEARS  AGO. 


following  lines  from  Churchill's  Rosciad 
so  aptly  illustrate  the  subject  of  my  remarks 
that  I  am  induced  to  think  the  reader  may  not 
find  them  so  familiar  as  to  think  their  introduction 
out  of  place  : 

By  turns  transform'd  into  all  kinds  of  shapes, 

Constant  to  none,  Foote  laughs,  cries,  struts,  and  scrapes; 

Now  in  the  centre,  now  in  van  or  rear, 

The  Proteus  shifts  —  bawd,  parson,  auctioneer. 

His  strokes  of  humor  and  his  bursts  of  sport 

Are  all  contain'd  in  this  one  word  —  distort. 

Doth  a  man  stutter,  look  asquint,  or  halt, 

Mimics  draw  humor  out  of  Nature's  fault  ; 

With  personal  defects  their  mirth  adorn, 

And  hang  misfortunes  out  to  public  scorn. 

E'en  I,  whom  Nature  cast  in  hideous  mould, 

Whom,  having  made,  she  trembled  to  behold, 

Beneath  the  load  of  mimicry  may  groan, 

And  find  that  Nature's  errors  are  my  own. 

Shadows  behind  of  Foote  and  Woodward  came  ; 

Wilkinson  this,  Obrien  was  that  name. 

Strange  to  relate,  but  wonderfully  true, 

That  even  shadows  have  their  shadows  too  ! 

With  not  a  single  comic  power  endued, 

The  first  a  mere,  mere  mimic's  mimic  stood; 

The  last,  by  Nature  form'd  to.  please,  who  shows 

In  Jonson's  Stephen  which  way  genius  grows, 

59 


60  CHURCHILL'S  "ROSCIAD." 

Self  quite  put  off,  affects  with  too  much  art 
To  put  on  Woodward  in  each  mangled  part ; 
Adopts  his  shrug,  his  wink,  his  stare — nay,  more, 
His  voice,  and  croaks ;  for  Woodward  croak'd  before. 
When  a  dull  copier  simple  grace  neglects, 
And  rests  his  imitation  on  defects, 
We  readily  forgive  ;  but  such  vile  arts 
Are  double  guilt  in  men  of  real  parts. 

By  Nature  form'd  in  her  perversest  mood 
With  no  one  requisite  of  art  endued, 
Next  Jackson  came.     Observe  that  settled  glare, 
Which  better  speaks  a  puppet  than  a  player; 
List  to  that  voice :  did  ever  Discord  hear 
Sounds  so  well  fitted  to  her  untuned  ear? 
When,  to  enforce  some  very  tender  part, 
The  right  hand  sleeps  by  instinct  on  the  heart, 
His  soul,  of  every  other  thought  bereft, 
Is  anxious  only  where  to  place  the  left ; 
He  sobs  and  pants  to  soothe  his  weeping  spouse — 
To  soothe  his  weeping  mother  turns  and  bows  ; 
Awkward,  embarrass'd,  stiff,  without  the  skill 
Of  moving  gracefully  or  standing  still, 
One  leg,  as  if  suspicious  of  his  brother, 
Desirous  seems  to  run  away  from  t'other. 

Some  errors,  handed  down  from  age  to  age, 
Plead  custom's  force,  and  still  possess  the  stage. 
That's  vile.     Should  we  a  parent's  faults  adore, 
And  err  because  our  fathers  erred  before  ? 
If,  inattentive  to  the  author's  mind, 
Some  actors  made  the  jest  they  could  not  find, 
If  by  low  tricks  they  marr'd  fair  Nature's  mien, 
And  blurred  the  graces  of  the  simple  scene, — 
Shall  we,  if  reason  rightly  is  employed, 
Not  see  their  faults,  or,  seeing,  not  avoid  ? 
When  Falstaff  stands  detected  in  a  lie, 
Why,  without  meaning,  rolls  Love's  glassy  eye  ? 
Why?     There's  no  cause — at  least  no  cause  we  know: 
It  was  the  fashion  twenty  years  ago. 


GARRICK  AS  A   MANAGER.  6l 

Fashion  ! — a  word  which  knaves  and  fools  may  use 

Their  knavery  and  folly  to  excuse. 

To  copy  beauties  forfeits  all  pretence 

To  fame ;  to  copy  faults  is  want  of  sense. 

"  The  heroes  before  Agamemnon  had  no  poets, 
and  they  died."  What  a  world  of  suggestion  is 
contained  in  such  a  saying!  and  how  fortunate 
have  been  the  actors  whose  characters,  and  imper- 
sonations of  character,  have  been  admired  and 
cherished  by  poets  and  historians ! 

Garrick,  as  a  necessary  consequence  of  his  pro- 
fession, has  left  no  material  evidence  of  his  art 
that  can  be  tested  by  the  criticisms  of  the  present, 
so  that  his  merits  must  be  viewed  through  the 
sketches  of  the  past  —  of  contemporary  appre- 
ciation or  prejudice.  The  age  in  which  Garrick 
lived  and  acted  was  noted  for  its  literature  and  its 
taste  in  art.  He  was  popular  with  all  classes,  and 
the  social  equal  of  his  educated  admirers ;  there- 
fore, the  record  of  his  merits  as  a  man  and  his 
talents  as  an  actor  has  come  down  to  us  with  all 
the  advantages  of  cultivated  tradition. 

o 

It  must  be  remembered  that  as  a  manager  he 
was  enabled,  by  his  controlling  power,  to  keep 
competitive  acting  out  of  his  way.  No  performer 
was.  tolerated  in  his  company  whose  peculiar  cha- 
racteristics marked  him  as  a  rival.  In  the  parts 
he  had  made,  as  it  is  said,  his  own,  no  one  was 
allowed  to  appear  except  upon  conditions  and 
under  circumstances  which  he  dictated  and  con- 
trolled. Even  his  female  performers  were  subject 
to  that  jealousy  which  brooked  no  rival  near  the 


62  HOLLAND    THE   PLAYER. 

theatrical  throne.  It  has  been  said  the  mantle  of 
his  genius  never  descended  to  grace  the  shoulders 
of  another  as  he  wore  it.*  The  same,  however, 
cannot  be  said  of  his  managerial  habits  of  acquir- 
ing by  all  available  means  a  lion's  share  of  popu- 
lar favor,  and  keeping  it  solely  to  himself. 

The  history  of  the  drama,  both  here  and  in 
England,  shows  numerous  instances  of  actors 
who  by  "  managing  means "  have  made  them- 

*  Holland,  a  pupil  of  Mr.  Garrick,  under  whose  tuition  he  made  some 
proficiency,  though  he  seldom  merited  more  praise  than  that  of  being  a 
tolerable  copy  of  a  fine  original,  first  appeared  on  the  stage  in  1755.  He 
was  a  good-looking  man,  but  had  an  affectation  of  carrying  his  head  either 
stiffly  erect  or  leaning  toward  one  shoulder,  which  gave  an  awkwardness 
to  his  person,  which  was  not  otherwise  ungraceful.  Holland's  ear  was 
perfectly  good,  and  he  had  great  good  sense,  industry,  and  application,  with 
a  moderate  share  of  sensibility.  He  had  also  a  fine,  powerful,  melodious, 
and  articulate  voice,  and  by  a  constant  attention  to  the  tone,  manner,  and 
action  of  Mr.  Garrick  did  not  displease  when  he  represented  some  of  his 
most  favorite  characters,  particularly  Hamlet,  Chamont,  Hastings,  and 
Tancred ;  in  the  last  he  manifested  an  uncommon  degree  of  spirit.  He 
was,  however,  always  most  correct  when  acting  under  the  eye  and  imme- 
diate direction  of  his  master ;  he  was  then  scrupulously  exact ;  and  if  he 
never  rose  to  excellence,  his  endeavors  to  attain  it  merited  and  obtained 
the  approbation  of  the  public. 

Next  Holland  came.     With  truly  tragic  stalk 

He  creeps,  he  flies — a  hero  should  not  walk 

As  if  with  Heaven  he  warr'd ;  his  eager  eyes 

Planted  their  batteries  against  the  skies ; 

Attitude,  action,  air,  pause,  start,  sigh,  groan, 

He  borrowed,  and  made  use  of  as  his  own. 

By  fortune  thrown  on  any  other  stage, 

He  might,  perhaps,  have  pleased  an  easy  age ; 

But  now  appears  a  copy,  and  no  more, 

Of  something  better  we  have  seen  before. 

The  actor  who  would  build  a  solid  fame 

Must  Imitation's  servile  arts  disdain — 

Act  from  himself,  on  his  own  bottom  stand : 

I  hate  e'en  Garrick  thus  at  second-hand. — Churchill. 


GARRICK'S  ACTING.  63 

selves  stars  of  popular   splendor  while    refusing   \ 
others  a  chance  to  shine. 

The  charm  of  Garrick's  acting,  we  have  every 
reason  to  believe,  was  its  naturalness  and  smooth- 
ness. It  has  been  said  that  while  he  never  start- 
led his  auditors  with  unexpected  flashes  of  genius, 
he  riveted  their  attention  by  an  exhibition  of  match- 
less skill.  He  depicted  the  human  passions  as 
they  were  portrayed  in  the  language  of  the  cha- 
racter he  represented,  not  only  by  his  well-man- 
aged intonations  and  other  expressive  qualities 
of  voice,  but  by  disciplined  art  as  a  pantomimist. 
Hence  he  was  enabled  to  captivate  both  the  eye 
and  the  ear  of  his  auditor.  He  thoroughly  identi- 
fied himself  with  the  spirit  of  his  author,  and  could 
delineate  the  passions  in  dumb  show  as  well  as  by 
vocal  power.  He  was  a  consummate  mimic,  a  bril- 
liant wit,  a  keen  observer,  and  a  practised  man  of 
the  world,  round  whom  celebrities  might  cluster  and 
gather  additional  store  of  humor  and  social  wealth. 

From  such  a  combination  of  artistic  material 
and  intellectual  endowment,  superadded  to  the 
graces  of  a  lively  poetic  imagination,  he  could 
not  fail  to  grasp  the  dramatic  sceptre,  and  wield 
it  with  commanding  effect  among  the  subjects  of 
the  mimic  scene. 

At  the  same  time  that  the  wits,  literati,  and 
scientists  of  the  age  were  his  admirers  at  the 
"  clubs,"  in  domestic  life  they  delighted  to  be  wel- 
comed at  his  own  generous  board,  where  were 
always  to  be  found  "  the  feast  of  reason  and  the 
flow  of  soul." 


64  GARRICK  AND    GOLDSMITH. 

The  age,  too,  in  which  Garrick  lived  and  won 
and  wore  his  distinctions  afforded  him  an  intel- 
lectual and  cultivated  audience,  well  calculated  to 
inspire  the  actor  with  more  than  ordinary  enthu- 
siasm in  the  study  and  practice  of  his  profession. 
The  most  distinguished  men  in  literature,  science, 
and  art  thronged  the  theatre,  listened  to  the  lan- 
guage of  the  play,  and  enjoyed  the  masterly  de- 
lineations of  the  actors,  not  merely  as  a  light  and 
trifling  mode  of  passing  the  time,  but  as  a  men- 
tal gratification,  an  artistic  study,  and  a  pleasing 
exhibition  of  human  nature. 

The  ability  of  the  great  actor  to  distinguish 
himself  among  the  wits  of  the  day  may  be  esti- 
mated from  a  reading  of  the  following  epigram- 
matic poems.  It  may  be  observed  also  that  his 
peculiar  way  of  dealing  in  theatrical  affairs  behind 
and  before  the  curtain  was  not  unknown  to  those 
who  were  his  familiars  in  convivial  matters  and 
in  professional  pen-and-ink  traffic. 

Dr.  Goldsmith's  satiric  wit  was  much  affected 
by  his  good-nature,  while  the  naturalness  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  man  shone  through  even  his  most 
inconsistent  and  bitter  invectives.  The  same  can- 
not be  said  of  Garrick,  who  may  be  charged  with 
writing  and  saying  brilliant  and  biting  things  for 
the  mere  love  of  the  applause  they  produced. 
The  two  men  were  the  antipodes  of  each  other 
in  nature  and  disposition. 

As  the  story  runs,  on  a  certain  festive  occa- 
sion at  a  literary  club  the  members  agreed  to 
write  epitaphs  on  their  fellow-member,  Dr.  Gold- 


GOLDSMITH'S  AND   GARRICK' S  EPITAPHS.    65 

smith,  in  order  to  provoke  him  to  reply  in  kind. 
Garrick's  effort  in  this  direction  is  chronicled  in 
the  following  lines,  entitled 

JUPITER  AND   MERCURY:   A   FABLE. 
BY   DAVID  GARRICK. 

"  Here,  Hermes  !"  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
"  Go,  fetch  me  some  clay :  I  will  make  an  odd  fellow. 
Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled,  much  gold  and  some  dross; 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross : 
Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions — 
A  great  lover  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turned  to  fictions. 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warmed  in  the  baking, 
Turn  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion  and  raking. 
With  the  love  of  a  wench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste ; 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  pen  with  fine  taste. 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o'er  all  may  be  seen, 
Set  fire  to  his  head  and  give  heat  to  his  spleen. 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
The  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 
Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  brother-mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name : 
When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear, 
You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him  to  make  us  sport  here." 


PORTRAIT  OF  DAVID   GARRICK. 
BY   DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick :  describe  him  who  can — 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man. 
As  an  actor  confessed  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line. 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings — a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty  his  colors  he  spread, 
And  he  plastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
6*  B 


66  STEELE    ON  GARRICK. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 

'Twas  only  that,  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day : 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick, 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came, 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 

Till,  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind  : 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  ! 

How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 

While  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies  ! 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will, 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Sir  Joshua  Steele,  in  his  work  on  The  Measure 
and  Melody  of  Speech,  published  in  1775,  gave  an 
original  notation  of  some  points  concerning  Gar- 
rick's  manner  of  reading.  From  this,  as  well  as 
from  observations  in  other  quarters,  I  have  been 
enabled  to  form  an  idea  of  the  great  actor's  style. 

The  speech-notation  of  Steele  resembles  a  sheet 
of  music  in  appearance,  the  notes  of  speech  being 
written  on  the  five  lines  of  the  staff,  minus  the 
clefs  and  signatures.  It  marks  the  pitch  of  syl- 
lables, and  their  quantity  and  the  time  and  rate  of 


GARRICK'S  READING   OF  HAMLET.  6j 

movement.  By  this  system  a  copy  can  be  made 
of  any  speaker's  mode  of  delivery,  and  read  intel- 
ligently by  another,  who  would  thus  be  enabled  to 
judge  of  the  manner  without  hearing  the  recital. 

Garrick's  reading  of  Hamlet's  soliloquy  on  death 
appears  to  have  been  an  impressive  and  tranquil 
utterance  of  reflective  thought,  without  impas- 
sioned or  demonstrative  emphasis  or  significant 
accentual  stress ;  with  little  or  no  distinction  of 
loud  and  soft,  but  nearly  uniform,  something  below  s 
ordinary  force,  or,  as  Steele  said,  "  sotto  voce  or  ^ 
poco  piano."  He  also  says  Garrick  was  distinctly  \ 
heard  in  the  most  subdued  tones  of  his  voice  in 
every  part  of  the  house,  while  other  actors  around 
him,  though  often  offensively  loud,  were  scarcely 
intelligible.  This  essential  quality  of  voice  was 
doubtless  owing  to  his  well -managed  syllabic 
quantities,  wherein  the  tone  was  sustained  with 
a  uniformity  of  sound  to  the  entire  extent  of  the 
syllable.  The  upward  and  downward  intervals 
were  within  the  compass  of  thirds  and  fifths,  ex- 
cept for  unusual  emphasis,  while  the  movement  of 
the  voice  was  marked  by  deliberate  rather  than  by 
rapid  time. 

Garrick's  clearly-distinct  and  well-rounded  tones 
of  subdued  or  undemonstrative  speech  kept  his 
audience  in  a  state  of  mental  quietude  commensu- 
rate with  the  subject  of  his  recital  when  his  main 
object  was  to  fix  their  attention  and  minister  to 
their  understanding;  consequently,  when  he  be- 
came aroused  by  the  spirit  of  the  language,  they 
were  in  a  condition  to  receive  and  appreciate  the 


68  STEELE  ON  MOSSOP. 

stronger  enforcements  of  his  more  impassioned 
presentations. 

Such  a  judicious  grouping  of  tone,  time,  and 
force  must  have  been  more  agreeable  to  his  audi- 
ence than  continuous  intermingled  and  crowded 
impressions,  the  result  of  injudicious  vehemence 
or  monotony,  such  as  marked  the  manner  of  many 
of  the  actors  of  that  period. 

Before  the  author  of  The  Measure  and  Melody 
of  Speech  saw  Garrick  act  he  made  a  notation  of 
what  must  have  been  the  manner  of  the  tragedian 
Mossop,  who  was  the  object  of  Churchill's  poetic 
censure,  on  account,  chiefly,  of  his  unvarying  tone 
and  indiscriminate  emphasis.  His  recitation  must 
have  been  measured,  grandiloquent,  and  stately, 
consequently  inexpressive  and  tiresome.  Churchill 
says ; 

With  studied  impropriety  of  speech 

He  soars  beyond  the  hackney'd  critic's  reach ; 

To  epithets  allots  emphatic  state, 

Whilst  principals,  ungraced,  like  lackeys  wait ; 

In  ways  first  trodden  by  himself  excels, 

And  stands  alone  in  indeclinables ; 

Conjunction,  preposition,  adverb,  join 

To  stamp  new  vigor  on  the  nervous  line ; 

In  monosyllables  his  thunders  roll, 

He,  she,  it,  and,  we,  ye,  they,  fright  the  soul. 

I  may  here  remark  that  the  "mouthing"  re- 
ferred to  in  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players,  as  I 
understand  it,  is  a  measured  uniformity  of  speech, 
which  gives  the  same  distinct  utterance  to  the  un- 
accented syllables  as  to  those  on  which  the  accent 


"TRIPPINGLY  ON   THE    TONGUE."  69 

falls.  This  was  Mossop's  fault,  the  same  that 
Shakespeare  found  with  the  recitation  of  his  day.* 
The  phrase  "  trippingly  on  the  tongue "  means 
movement  in  speech,  which  strikes  the  accented 
syllable  with  a  proper  force  and  quantity,  and 
passes  lightly,  though  correctly,  over  the  unac- 
cented syllables  of  the  line.  This  must  have  been 
Garrick's  grace  of  utterance,  and  is  what  Shake- 
speare meant  by  these  words,  so  frequently  quoted 
and  so  little  understood.  The  same  idea  is  again 
expressed  by  our  author  in  the  following :  "  Whose 
name  runs  smoothly  in  the  even  flow  of  a  blank 


verse." 


*  The  following  comments  on  the  style  of  a  certain  orator  apply  so  well 
to  many  of  the  actors  of  Garrick's  time  that  I  have  given  it  a  place  as  per- 
tinent matter.  The  writer  says  of  the  subject  of  his  article:  "He  is  not 
an  impressive  speaker.  There  is,  indeed,  about  him  an  appearance  of 
impressiveness  very  likely  to  deceive  for  a  few  moments,  but  the  illusion  is 
soon  lost,  and  the  result  is  monotony  and  fatigue.  Effect  is  so  carefully 
calculated,  so  steadily  aimed  at,  that  it  is  missed  amid  the  machinery  which 
is  used  to  produce  it.  The  orator,  no  less  than  the  actor,  if  he  would 
move  men,  must  now  and  then  forget  himself  in  his  subject,  or  at  least 

seem  to  do  so.     Mr. never  forgets  or  seems  to  forget  himself.     He 

delivers  himself  in  the  large  orotund,  pompous  way  which  is  as  much  out 
of  fashion  as  the  Kemble  school  of  acting,  so  far  as  we  of  this  generation 
know  anything  of  that  school.  The  same  allowance  of  elocution  is  meted 
to  all  parts  of  the  speech,  which  therefore  moves  along  a  dead  level, 
although  the  level  is  artificially  forced  to  a  sort  of  high  table-land.  The 
commonplaces  of  an  address,  the  asides,  the  subordinate  parts,  are  given 
out  with  the  measured  magnificence  and  deliberation  which  may  properly 

belong  to  important  utterances  and  eloquent  climaxes.     If  Mr. were 

an  actor  he  would  deliver  a  footman's  «  My  lord,  the  carriage  waits,'  with 
the  same  pose,  the  same  precision,  the  same  volume,  which  he  would  give 
to  Lear's  curse  or  Othello's  address  to  the  senate.  His  method  is  the 
reverse  of  popular.  It  is  opposed  to  the  naturalness  and  the  simplicity 
which  the  taste  of  the  time  demands  in  all  kinds  of  art.  We  miss  the 
relief,  the  nice  proportion,  the  real  repose,  which  is  the  last  charm  of 
oratory." 


70        MONBODDO    ON  STEELE'S  NOTATION. 

When  Steele's  notation  of  speech  was  explained 
to  Garrick  he  asked  if  anybody,  by  the  help  of 
such  notes,  could  pronounce  his  words  in  exactly 
the  same  tone  and  manner  as  he  did  himself.  The 
reply  was :  "  Suppose  a  great  musician  had  written 
a  piece  of  music,  and  had  played  it  on  a  very  fine 
violin,  and  then  another  performer  had  played 
the  same  composition  on  an  ordinary  fiddle  with 
the  same  accuracy  as  the  great  master,  though 
perhaps  with  less  ease  and  elegance  ?  In  such  a 
case,  no  matter  how  correctly  the  music  might  be 
played  on  the  poor  fiddle,  nothing  could  prevent 
the  audience  from  perceiving  the  difference  in  the 
instruments — that  one  was  fine  and  beautiful,  the 
other  mean  and  execrable.  And  so,  though  the 
speech-notes,  and  the  rules  by  which  they  are 
expressed,  may  enable  a  master  to  teach  a  just 
application  of  the  expressive  forms  of  speaking, 
they  cannot  give  sweetness  to  a  voice  where  Na- 
ture has  denied  such  a  gift." 

Lord  Monboddo,  the  author  of  The  Origin  and 
Progress  of  Language^  says  of  Steele's  notation : 
"  Upon  the  whole,  it  is  my  opinion — and  I  find  it 
the  opinion  of  all  the  musical  men  here  to  whom 
I  have  shown  it — that  Mr.  Steele's  dissertation  is 
a  most  ingenious  performance.  It  is  reducing  to 
an  art  what  was  thought  incapable  of  all  rule  and 
measure,  and  it  shows  that  there  is  a  melody  and 
a  rhythm  in  our  language  which  I  doubt  not  may 
be  improved  by  observing  and  noting  what  is  most 
excellent  of  the  kind  in  the  best  speakers.  In  that 
way  I  should  think  that  both  the  voice  and  ear  of 


IMPROVEMENT  IN  DECLAMATION.  71 

those  who  do  not  speak  so  well  might  be  mended, 
and  even  the  declamation  of  our  best  actors  may 
be  improved,  by  observing  in  what  respects  they 
fall  short  or  exceed ;  for  as  soon  as  a  thing  is 
reduced  to  an  art,  faults  will  be  found  in  the  best 
performers  that  were  not  before  observed." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

JOHN  PHILIP  KEMBLE,    CHARLES  KEAN,  AND 
COOKE. 

JOHN  PHILIP  KEMBLE,  who  followed  Gar- 
rick,  must  be  viewed  as  an  actor  entirely 
from  the  tragic  standpoint.  Coldly  classic  in  his 
conceptions,  dignified  and  deliberate  in  action, 
he  seems  never  to  have  risen  above  the  pall 
and  gloom  of  the  Tragic  Muse.  His  acting  and 
bearing  upon  the  stage  resembled  the  sculp- 
tured marble  of  the  classic  times  or  the  heroic 
presentations  of  the  historic  canvas.  It  is  said 
he  suffered  from  asthma,  and  that  his  voice  was 
deep  and  hollow,  lacking  in  force,  and  of  little 
variety  save  in  the  quality  of  pathos.  His  effects 
were  confined  within  a  proper  range  of  height 
and  depth,  and  marked  with  appropriate  varia- 
tions of  quantity. 

The  late  Dr.  Walter  Channing  of  Boston  was 
a  lover  of  Shakespeare  and  an  ardent  admirer 
of  good  speaking  and  reading.  In  his  younger 
days  he  had  heard  the  London  celebrities  of  the 
stage,  and  remembered  their  several  modes  of 
speaking  and  the  distinctive  qualities  of  their 
voices.  In  comparing  notes  with  the  doctor  I 
remember  reciting  for  him  Hamlet's  soliloquy  on 
death,  after  what  I  had  considered  Mr.  Kemble's 

72 


KEMBLE' S  READING.  73 

manner  of  delivery,  and  which  I  had  picked  up 
from  the  traditions  of  the  stage.  He  was  sur- 
prised  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  never  heard 
Mr.  Kemble,  "For,"  said  he,  "your  imitation  of 
his  quality  and  movement  of  voice  and  intona- 
tion is  certainly  a  well-marked  presentation  of 
the  tragedian's  manner,  without,  of  course,  the 
high  coloring  of  a  literal  likeness."  As  I  re- 
marked to  Dr.  Channing,  this  might  be  attrib- 
utable to  my  having  acted  frequently  with  Mr. 
Charles  Kemble,  whose  manner  in  tragedy  must 
have  been  a  close  copy  of  his  brother's  pecu- 
liarities. 

The  stately  movement  and  the  undulating  swell 
of  tone  in  altitude  and  depression  which  marked 
Mr.  John  Kemble's  recitation  must  have  been 
peculiarly  adapted  to  grave  and  sombre  effects, 
and,  though  it  might  tardily  meet  the  require- 
ments of  abrupt  and  startling  passion,  it  was 
fully  equal  to  the  expressive  demands  of  inten- 
sified grandeur  in  declamatory  force.  Imagine, 
for  instance,  the  majesty  of  Kemble's  voice  giv- 
ing utterance  to  the  o'erfraught  soul  of  the  proud 
Roman  as  expressed  by  Shakespeare's  Coriolanus, 
when  Tullus  Aufidius  tauntingly  calls  him  a  "  boy 
of  tears."  The  outraged  hero,  towering  to  the 
full  height  of  majestic  indignation,  exclaims — 

Measureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my  heart 

Too  great  for  what  contains  it. — "  Boy  !  "     O  slave  ! 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsces ;  men  and  lads, 

Stain  all  your  edges  on  me. — "Boy  !  "     False  hound ! 

7 


74    KEMBLE  AND  GARRICK  CONTRASTED. 

If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  'tis  there, 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Flutter' d  your  Volsces  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it— "Boy!" 

Deliberate  even  in  impetuous  utterance,  too 
dignified  to  be  boisterous,  and  too  haughty  to  be 
aroused  to  unbridled  anger,  the  arrogant  patrician 
would  find  expressive  utterance  in  the  full  swell 
of  "the  orotund,"  the  well -sustained  force  of 
"final  stress,"  and  every  degree  of  the  undulating 
"wave."  Such  forms  and  quality  of  voice  only 
could  exhibit  the  indignant  astonishment  and  sup- 
pressed rage  with  which  he  greets  the  insulting 
epithet  of  a  "boy  of  tears."  Save  in  the  one 
element  of  absolute  force,  in  which  he  was  want- 
ing, there  can  be  no  doubt  Mr.  Kemble's  voice 
was  equal  to  the  emergency  of  such  a  situation. 

The  movement  and  quality  of  Garrick's  voice 
and  speech,  on  the  other  hand,  were  comparatively 
shorter,  sharper,  and  more  rapid,  and,  it  may  be 
said,  harder,  consequently  better  adapted  to  the 
expression  of  incisive  and  fierce  declamation  or 
petulant  and  angry  utterances  beyond  the  limit 
of  dignity,  while  for  the  expression  of  intensified 
heroism,  love,  and  pity,  or  the  mingled  bitterness 
of  scorn,  hate,  and  rage,  and  for  all  such  ardent 
presentations  of  human  passion,  the  English  Ros- 
cius  must  have  appropriately  worn  the  garland  of 
the  British  stage. 

Again,  Garrick  not  only  possessed  the  graces 
and  force  of  vocal  expression,  but  also  all  the 
physical  attributes  of  action.  His  features  were 


HON.   EDWARD  EVERETT.  75 

adapted  in  an  eminent  degree  to  the  faithful  ex- 
hibition of  every  state  of  the  mind.  His  person, 
though  small,  was  at  once  compact  and  flexible, 
answering  readily  to  the  manifestations  of  fancy 
or  will  in  all  the  forms  of  attitude,  gesture,  and 
the  general  adaptation  of  physical  conformity  to 
the  creative  promptings  of  the  imagination  or  the 
more  determinate  phases  of  intellectual  embodi- 
ment.* 

I  am  indebted  to  Dr.  Channing  for  the  follow- 
ing interesting  statement :  The  late  Hon.  Edward 
Everett,  when  a  young  man  in  London,  called 
upon  the  distinguished  tragedian,  Mr.  Edmund 
Kean,  and  received  a  few  hints  relating  to  his 
habits  of  articulation.  Mr.  Everett  was  told  that 
he  paid  too  much  attention  to  his  vowel-sounds, 

*  One  of  Garrick's  distinguishing  characteristics  was  his  power  of  sud- 
denly assuming  any  passion  he  was  called  to  represent.  This  often  occurred 
during  his  continental  travels,  when  in  the  private  rooms  of  his  various 
hosts — princes,  merchants,  actors — he  would  give  them  a  taste  of  his  qual- 
ity, Scrub  or  Richard,  Brute  or  Macbeth,  with  which  he  identified  himself 
on  the  instant.  He  once  drew  tears  from  his  spectators  when,  in  telling 
the  story  of  a  child  falling  from  a  window  out  of  its  father's  arms,  he  threw 
himself  into  the  attitude  and  put  on  the  look  of  horror  of  that  distracted 
father.  We  saw  him,  says  a  writer,  play  the  dagger-scene  in  Macbeth  in  a 
drawing-room  in  his  ordinary  dress,  surrounded  by  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  as  his  eyes  followed  the  air-drawn  dagger  the  effect  was  so  startling 
that  the  whole  assembly  broke  into  a  general  cry  of  admiration.  Another 
writer  says  his  studio  was  the  crowded  streets,  and  he  perfected  his  great 
talents  by  the  profound  study  of  Nature.  Again  he  says  :  "  He  has  much 
humor,  discernment,  and  correctness  of  judgment — is  naturally  monkeyish, 
imitating  all  he  sees,  and  is  always  graceful,  an  admirable  dancer,  unaf- 
fected and  natural."  It  is  said  that  while  sitting  for  his  portrait  he  amused 
himself  by  running  the  whole  scale  of  the  passions,  passing  through  imper- 
ceptible gradations  from  extreme  joy  to  extreme  sadness,  and  thence  to 
terror  and  despair.  It  is  even  said  that  this  ever-restless  actor  fairly  fright- 
ened Hogarth  himself.  He  has  been  known  to  set  the  green-room  in  a 
roar  of  laughter  between  the  most  affecting  scenes  of  King  Lear. 


76         EVERETT'S  MEASURED    UTTERANCE. 

and  did  not,  as  the  actor  said,  attack  his  conso- 
nants with  determination ;  he  should  strike  them 
with  pronounced  force  at  the  beginning  of  syl- 
lables, and  bite  them  off  sharply  when  they  end 
them.  In  illustration  of  this  idea  Kean  recited  the 
lines,  "  I  hate  thee,  Harry,  for  thy  blood  of  Lan- 
caster," and  others  of  a  like  kind.  The  distinct 
and  powerful  effect  of  Kean's  articulation  made 
such  an  impression  on  Mr.  Everett  that  he  took 
the  lesson  to  heart  and  made  it  a  special  study. 
But  he  came  near  carrying  this  nicety  of  articula- 
tion to  pedantic  precision ;  exact  and  explicit  as 
his  enunciation  was,  one  degree  more  of  distinct- 
ness would  have  degenerated  into  affectation. 

Let  every  initial  and  final  consonant  in  the 
following  passage  be  distinctly  pronounced  and 
given  with  marked  deliberation :  "  A  cup  of  tea 
spilled  upon  a  lady's  embroidered  petticoat  set 
the  continent  of  Europe  in  a  blaze ;  a  few  boxes 
of  tea  thrown  into  Boston  harbor  cost  George 
the  Third  his  colonies ;"  and  the  effect  will  be  like 
Mr.  Everett's  measured  utterance. 

In  the  absence  of  expressive  effort  it  may  do 
to  follow  the  time-honored  injunction  to  distinct- 
ly stamp  and  round  our  words,  "like  newly-im- 
pressed coin  fresh  from  the  mint;"  but  where 
emotion  or  passion  is  concerned  our  words  re- 
ceive their  vocal  value  from  the  clear  ring  of  the 
metal,  rather  than  from  the  completeness  of  form 
or  impression. 

In  connection  with  his  habit  of  over-nice  pre- 
cision, so  called,  in  the  utterance  of  the  conso- 


THE  ELDER  AND  YOUNGER  KEAN.     77 

nants,  it  will  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Everett 
gave  to  his  vowels  a  peculiarly  distinct  vocality, 
which  afforded  a  fine  coloring  to  his  speech  and 
made  it  attractive  in  an  elocutionary  sense.  On 
the  contrary,  actors  who  adopted  the  elder  Kean's 
style  made  themselves  ridiculous  by  a  labored 
effort  to  give  the  consonants  an  undue  share  of 
articulative  effect.  In  consequence  of  this  affec- 
tation their  vowel-sounds  were  smothered  in  the 
throat  or  obscured  by  husky  aspiration.  This 
studied  "effect  defective,"  as  Polonius  says,  was 
particularly  observable  in  the  acting  of  Charles 
Kean,  of  whom  it  may  be  said  that,  while  he  im- 
itated the  striking  peculiarities  of  his  father's  artic- 
ulative methods,  he  lacked  in  a  great  degree  the 
vivid  and  incisive  powers  of  expression  for  which 
the  latter  was  so  highly  distinguished. 

The  younger  Kean  had,  in  his  turn,  many  im- 
itators, who,  falling  short  of  his  excellence  as  a 
finished  tragedian,  copied  his  eccentricities  and 
exhibited  only  the  objectionable  features  of  his 
style.  The  consequence  was,  that  imitation  de- 
generated into  mimicry,  and  while  Mr.  Kean's 
acting  was  applauded  to  the  echo  for  its  artistic 
details  and  breadth  of  dramatic  force,  the  imitations 
of  his  speech,  whenever  presented  upon  the  stage 
(as  they  frequently  were)  by  low  comedians,  were 
received  with  boisterous  applause  and  laughter. 

The  following  lines  will  give  a  fair  and  unex- 
aggerated  impression  of  the  specific  characteris- 
tics for  which  both  the  elder  Kean  and  his  son 
were  distinguished : 


78  SUCKS  TONE    THE  COMEDIAN. 

Can'st  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 

^aze  out  the  written  /roubles  of  the  <£rain 

And  with  some  jwee/  ob/ivious  antidote 

Cleanse  the  jturTe^/3osom  of  that  perilous  stuff 

Which  weighs  upon  the  ^ear/? — Macbeth,  Act  V.,  S.  iii. 

I  am  reminded  here  of  an  incident  that  occurred 
while  I  was  acting,  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
London,  the  character  of  Rover  in  Wild  Oats — 
a  part  which  affords  the  performer,  from  the  many 
quotations  he  has  to  deliver,  an  opportunity  of 
imitating  the  style  of  other  actors,  which  is  often 
freely  indulged  in,  and  generally  applauded  by  the 
audience.  On  the  occasion  of  my  first  rehearsal 
the  well-known  comedian  and  manager,  the  late 
Mr.  Buckstone,  remarked  to  me  that  as  he  and 
his  brother-comedians  had  been  so  much  in  the 
habit  of  mimicking  Mr.  Kean,  my  imitation  of 
him  might  not  be  recognized.  I  took  the  hint, 
although  I  shrewdly  suspected  that  Mr.  Buck- 
stone's  real  meaning  was  a  London  audience 
might  feel  that  a  stranger  had  no  right  to  take 
liberties  with  the  eccentricities  of  their  distin- 
guished actor.  Old  Mirabel  says  of  his  son  Bob, 
"  Mr.  Duritete,  though  I  call  my  son  hard  names 
myself,  you  sha'n't  do  so ;  for,  though  Bob  is  a 
sad  dog,  remember  he  is  nobody's  puppy  but  my 


own." 


Now,  in  order  to  show  how  far  imitation  may 
degenerate  into  mimicry,  I  will  quote  a  few  lines 
from  the  character  of  Shylock  in  the  spirit  of  an 
article  that  appeared  in  London  Punchy  which 


GEORGE  FREDERICK   COOKE.  79 

thus  criticises  Mr.  Kean :  "  We  don't  like  the  act-  i 
ing  of  Mr.  Kean,  but  we  must  acknowledge  his   \ 
antiquarian  researches  into  the  private  habits  of 
Shakespeare's  Jew.     In  speaking  of  the  means  of 
Shylock's  subsistence,  by  his  peculiar  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  word  '  means '  he  proves  the  Jew  to 
have  been  a  lover  of  vegetables,  as  thus:   'You 
take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop  that 
doth  sustain  my  house;  you  take  my  life  when 
you  do  take  the  beans  whereby  I  live.' "  * 

From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  the  actor's  pecu- 
liarities of  articulation  were  so  striking  that  the 
reference  to  a  single  word  italicised  as  uttered  by 
him  could  be  made  to  create  a  broad  grin  wher- 
ever it  was  read. 

In  marked  contrast  to  the  dignified,  unimpas- 
sioned,  and  coldly-impressive  manner  of  John 
Philip  Kemble  was  the  acting  of  George  Fred- 
erick Cooke,  an  actor  who  divided  honors  with 
that  gentleman,  and  by  some  was  even  preferred 
to  him.  Mr.  Cooke's  voice  was  powerful  and 
well  sustained  throughout — rather  hard  and  sharp, 

*  The  letters  m  and  n  are  sounded  by  passing  the  breath  from  the  glottis 
entirely  through  the  nose ;  this  gives  to  them  a  nasal  effect,  and  adds  to  the 
quantity  of  such  words  as  means,  move.  The  letter  b  has  an  unmixed 
vocality,  and  is  formed  in  the  larynx,  but  the  sound  in  its  outward  course 
has  a  modifying  vibration  in  the  fauces,  the  mouth,  and  the  cavity  of  the 
nose.  The  vocality  of  the  letter  b  is  short  and  more  or  less  abrupt.  Bat 
is  a  short  syllable,  man  a  long  one.  Now,  if  the  nasal  murmur  of  the  m 
be  cut  off,  and  the  letter  quickly  sounded,  the  word  man  will  sound  like 
ban.  The  peculiar  snappy  sort  of  articulation  for  which  the  Keans  were 
distinguished  made  the  pronunciation  of  the  word  means,  as  it  fell  upon 
the  ear,  sound  like  beans.  By  closing  the  lips  tightly,  and  then  opening 
them  quickly  in  the  utterance  of  the  word  mant  any  person  may  prove  the 
truth  of  the  proposition. 


8O  JOHN  KEMBLE  AND   COOKE. 

but  remarkable  for  compass — while  the  actor's 
entire  command  over  it  gave  it  a  special  effect 
in  ease  and  rapidity  of  movement.  In  such  a 
presentation  we  can  readily  perceive  qualities 
which  mark  a  direct  departure  from  the  Kemble 
rule  as  striking  as  that  was  from  the  previous 
standard  of  Garrick. 

Kemble's  acting  was  marked  by  a  decidedly 
oratorical  style  of  delivery,  arising  from  his  famil- 
iarity with  the  long  and  short  quantities  of  classic 
verse.  On  the  other  hand,  Cooke,  it  is  said,  wrote 
out  his  Shakespearian  blank  verse  in  the  form  of 
prose,  in  order  to  facilitate  his  study  and  break 
up  a  tendency  to  a  rhythmic  delivery.  He  always 
gave  the  language  of  his  characters  in  the  form  of 
unpremeditated  speech,  divested  of  what  Shake- 
speare calls  the  "  even  flow  of  a  blank  verse." 
Kemble's  style  may  therefore  be  termed  the 
poetic-dramatic,  and  Cooke's  the  dramatic-poetic. 

Cooke,  while  excelling  in  such  characters  as 
Richard  the  Third  and  Lear,  was  unsurpassed  in 
his  impersonation  of  that  remarkable  character, 
Sir  Archie  MacSycophant.  There  is  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  it  was  an  inimitable  and  unique 
impersonation.  The  broad  Scotch  brogue  was 
sustained  throughout  in  a  perfectly  correct  and 
faithful  manner,  while  his  oily  smoothness  and 
craft  were  plainly  traceable  in  every  tone,  look, 
and  action  of  the  heartless  hypocrite  and  time- 
serving politician. 

Such  excellence  in  dramatic  art  was  mainly  at- 
tributable to  the  actor's  mastery  over  his  voice, 


COOKE  AND    OTHER   ACTORS.  8 1 

and  his  skill  in  adapting  it  to  the  play  of  feature 
and  bodily  action  in  the  familiar  expression  of 
every-day  life  and  character. 

In  such  dramatic  power  Cooke  was  the  equal 
of  Garrick,  whose  Abel  Drugger  was  considered 
the  perfection  of  what  is  now  termed  "  character- 
acting" — a  performance  in  which  the  delineation 
of  special  traits  of  personal  character  is  consid- 
ered of  more  consequence  than  the  artistic  treat- 
ment of  the  language  in  which  the  dramatist  has 
embodied  the  principles  of  humanity  in  the  fitting 
garb  of  poetic  imagery.  Jefferson's  Rip  Van 
Winkle  is  a  type  of  Nature  in  the  former,  while 
Booth's  Lear  was  an  exposition  of  the  same  in 
the  latter  sense.  The  "  letter  "  of  Rip's  language 
is  lost  in  the  vitalizing  power  of  Jefferson's  tones, 
and  by  Booth's  acting  the  auditor  was  raised  to 
the  intellectual  plane  of  the  author's  language, 
thereby  realizing  the  mental  as  well  as  the  physical 
storm  which  wrecked  the  fortunes  of  the  brain- 
struck  Lear. 

Next  in  order  after  his  MacSycophant  was 
considered  Cooke's  wonderful  performance  of 
lago,  of  which  it  has  been  said  of  all  the  im- 
personators of  that  character  he  was  the  only 
one  who  never  took  the  audience  into  his  special 
consideration,  or  evinced  a  desire  to  make  them 
"chuckle  over"  his  successful  villainy.  On  the 
contrary,  though  applauding  him  for  the  soldierly 
and  social  traits  exhibited  in  his  relations  with 
Cassio,  he  never  failed  to  create  feelings  of  the 
bitterest  hatred  for  his  depraved  acts  and  duplicity. 


82  THE  IAGO    OF   COOKE. 

He  gave  to  this  protean  character  a  pointedly 
varied  and  diverse  complexion,  fitted  to  lago's 
several  relations  with  the  other  personages  of  the 
play,  each  of  his  assumed  dispositions  being  indi- 
vidualized and  sustained ;  while  his  unassumed 
personal  malignity  was  the  crowning-point  of  art- 
istic delineation. 

To  Othello  he  was  the  humble  and  earnest 
though  seemingly  over-watchful  guardian  of  the 
honor  of  a.  respected  friend,  jealous  of  everything 
likely  to  detract  from  the  dignity  of  the  officer  to 
whom  he  owed  the  duties  of  a  trusted  and  valued 
subordinate.  Avoiding  a  cringing  servility,  his 
manner  was  that  of  submissive  though  self-re- 
specting obedience,  and  so  he  won  the  name  of 
"honest  lago." 

To  Cassio  his  self-satisfied,  free-and-easy  sol- 
dier-like bearing  became  the  snare.  Never  before 
was  man  entrapped  by  a  more  seemingly  jovial 
and  courteous  invitation  to  an  innocent  indulgence 
befitting  a  special  occasion,  as  a  relaxation  from 
the  stern  duties  of  war,  than  that  which  led  the 
unhappy  lieutenant  to  folly  and  disgrace.  Yet  the 
mask  under  which  it  was  perpetrated  was  distinct 
and  opposite  to  the  one  worn, in  the  presence  of 
the  confiding  and  tortured  general. 

Toward  the  foolish  Roderigo  was  turned,  and 
faithfully,  the  aspect  of  a  licentious,  unscrupulous, 
but  merry  seducer  to  the  basest  of  actions,  which 
was  logically  presented  as  a  gentlemanly  recrea- 
tion. By  a  well-sustained  levity  and  jocose  indif- 
ference, no  matter  how  atrocious  the  sentiment 


ITS  MARKED  FEATURES.  83 

expressed,  the  victim  was  blinded  to  the  real  in- 
tentions of  his  crafty  adviser,  and  accepted  the 
proposed  murder  as  a  necessary  link  in  a  compli- 
cated chain  of  intrigue  and  villainy — a  mere  love- 
affair,  common  and  excusable.  Thus  the  stimu- 
lated and  provoked  lover  accepted  the  situation 
without  suspecting  the  personal  object  or  motive 
of  the  tempting  fiend.  Such  were  the  meshes 
which  entangled  the  feet  of  Roderigo  and  dragged 
him  to  infamy  and  death. 

The  masquerade  in  every  case  was  perfect  and 
distinct  from  the  personalities  of  the  villain,  thus 
fully  interpreting  lago's  own  remarks  in  the  early 
part  of  the  play  regarding  himself: 

For  when  my  outward  action  doth  demonstrate 
The  native  act  and  figure  of  my  heart 
In  compliment  extreme,  'tis  not  long  after 
But  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
For  daws  to  peck  at :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 

From  the  deep  secrecy  of  that  baleful  centre 
of  evil,  so  terribly  illuminated  in  his  soliloquies, 
flashed  forth  the  fires  of  malignant  hatred  as  fatal 
as  the  glance  from  the  eyes  of  the  death-darting 
cockatrice,  while  from  between  his  clenched  teeth 
hissed  forth  the  withering  words  of  resistless  doom. 
Such,  tradition  tells  us,  were  the  marked  features 
of  Cooke's  impersonation  of  lago.* 

*  Doran  says :  "  Kemble  excelled  Cooke  in  nobleness  of  presence,  but 
Cooke  surpassed  the  other  in  power  and  compass  of  voice,  which  was 
sometimes  as  harsh  as  Kemble's;  and  indeed  I  may  say  the  Kemble  voice 
was  invariably  feeble.  In  statuesque  parts  and  in  picturesque  characters — 
in  the  Roman  Coriolanus  and  in  Hamlet  the  Dane — Kemble's  scholarly 
and  artistic  feeling  gave  him  the  precedence ;  but  in  lago,  and  especially 


84  AN  ESTIMATE  OF  COOKE. 

In  my  youth  I  was  much  impressed  by  the 
opinions  of  an  old  gentleman  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  and  enjoying,  as  he  said,  the 
language  of  Shakespeare  rounded  and  sounded 
in  his  ear,  until  his  understanding  was  illuminated 
and  his  emotional  nature  flooded  with  the  sense 
and  passion  it  contained ;  and  he  added  that  the 
degree  of  gratification  he  derived  from  the  im- 
personation depended  upon  the  actors  speech 
and  his  ability  to  merge  his  own  feelings  in  those 
of  the  part  he  sustained  without  Detracting  from 
the  naturalness  of  the  author's  portraiture.  He 
was  not  a  highly-educated  man,  but  judged  both 
author  and  actor  from  the  standpoint  of  common 
sense  and  the  impressions  made  upon  his  sympa- 
thies and  passions.  Mr.  Cooke  was  always  held 
up  by  him  a  head  and  shoulders  above  all  his  con- 
temporaries as  the  embodiment  of  dramatic  truth. 
While  the  elder  Kean,  he  said,  startled  and  sur- 
prised him,  he  made  no  impression  save  that  of 
one  whose  impetuosity  of  temperament  and  vehe- 
mence of  speech  excited  and  bewildered  the  im- 
agination, leaving  the  mind  in  the  unsatisfactory 
state  of  confusion  expressed  by  Cassio  after  his 
drunkenness : 

in  Richard,  Cooke  has  been  adjudged  very  superior  in  voice,  expression, 
and  style,  '  his  manner  being  more  quick,  abrupt,  and  impetuous,  and  his 
attitudes  better,  as  having  less  the  appearance  of  study.'  Off  the  stage, 
during  the  progress  of  a  play,  he  did  not,  like  Betterton,  preserve  the  cha- 
racter he  was  acting,  nor,  like  Young,  tell  gay  stories  and  even  sing  gay 
songs;  but  he  loved  to  have  the  strictest  order  and  decorum.  Could  he 
have  carried  into  real  life  the  scrupulousness  which  at  one  time  he  carried 
into  the  mimicry  of  it,  he  would  have  been  a  better  actor  and  a  better 
man." 


COOKE   IN  "RICHARD    THE    THIRD."  85 

I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  nothing  distinctly — 
A  quarrel,  but  nothing  wherefore. 

My  old-fashioned  critic,  in  speaking  of  Kean, 
used  to  say  that  he  often  uttered  his  speech  as 
if  he  had  a  mouthful  of  hot  potatoes.  Strange 
as  the  remark  was,  it  finds  a  fellowship  with  what 
Garrick  said  of  Henderson's  "  wool-and- worsted  " 
obstruction  to  vocality. 

As  an  evidence  of  the  estimation  in  which  Mr. 
Cooke  was  held  by  the  scholars  of  his  time  the 
fact  may  be  cited  that  Mr.  George  Ticknor  pro- 
nounced him  the  only  perfect  embodiment  of  nat- 
ural acting  he  had  ever  seen,  either  in  this  coun- 
try or  in  Europe.  The  impression  made  by  Mr. 
Cooke's  impersonation  of  Richard  the  Third  was 
that  of  bold  and  manly  defiance.  There  was  an 
almost  entire  absence  of  the  aspirated  and  smoth- 
ered tones  of  fretful  spite  and  complaint  which  in 
our  day,  with  but  one  illustrious  exception,  have 
marked  the  acting  of  Shakespeare's  boldest  vil- 
lain. Cooke's  tone  of  voice  indicated  a  man  con- 
scious of  power  and  sure  of  success,  who  looked 
upon  the  physical  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his 
schemes  as  so  many  feathers  which  it  only  re- 
quired a  breath  of  his  will  to  blow  aside.  The 
removal  of  obnoxious  personages  was  to  him  a 
natural  means  to  the  accomplishment  of  an  ambi- 
tious end,  that  end  being  simply  the  perpetuation 
of  the  kingly  rule  of  the  house  of  York,  which 
of  course  meant  the  good  of  the  kingdom  wrought 
through  the  instrumentality  of  the  axe  and  block. 


86  THE  ELDER   KEAN  AS  RICHARD. 

The  actor  impressed  his  auditor  with  the  idea 
that  it  was  the  inherent  right  of  the  strong  to  put 
the  weak  out  of  the  way ;  which,  by  the  by,  was 
much  the  fashion  of  the  times.  Practically,  he 
seemed  to  consider  his  deformities  as  something 
which  entitled  him  to  compensation  at  the  hands 
of  fortune  for  the  ill  turn  Nature  had  done  him. 
He  sported  with  his  infirmities  in  the  spirit  of  an 
unrelenting  philosophy,  not  attempting  to  shelter 
himself  behind  them  or  making  them  apologies 
for  his  hate. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  elder  Kean  by  his  hiss- 
ing and  snarling  tones  made  the  auditor  feel  that 
Richard,  in  the  poet's  phrase,  "  nursed  his  spleen 
to  keep  it  warm."  He  excited  within  himself  a 
constant  state  of  ferocity  and  disgust  for  his  in- 
firmities of  mind  and  body,  and  snarled  out  his 
hatred  for  the  whole  world.  In  short,  he  seemed 
to  feel  that  if  for  a  moment  he  lost  sight  of  these 
incentives  to  mischief  he  would  fail  to  execute  his 
evil  work.  Thus  the  tiger,  by  his  angry  growls 
and  the  lashings  of  his  tail,  it  is  said,  excites  his 
passion  to  a  state  of  intensified  fury. 

But  Cooke,  in  a  more  comprehensive  treatment 
of  language,  gave  it  a  varied  complexion.  To  the 
utterance  of  exalted  thought  he  gave  the  clear 
ring  of  a  pleasing  vocality,  and  when  under  the 
lash  of  excited  feeling  his  intonations  were  those 
which  Nature  has  furnished  for  the  expression 
of  varying  kinds  and  degrees  of  human  passion. 


CHAPTER   V. 
ANECDOTES  OF  ACTORS. 

TV/T  R.  THOMAS  COOPER  was  the  first  distin- 
guished  star-actor  on  the  American  stage. 
He  was  an  Englishman,  and  came  to  this  country 
before  he  had  won  any  marked  distinction  on  the 
London  boards.  It  is  evident  that  he  modelled 
himself,  if  we  may  so  speak,  halfway  between 
Kemble  and  Cooke ;  for  he  exhibited  some  of 
the  peculiarities  of  both  those  great  actors,  he 
being  a  young  man  and  a  rising  performer  when 
they  were  in  the  height  of  their  popularity.  He 
was  endowed  with  a  fine  figure  and  a  voice  of 
great  richness  and  compass,  and  was  equally 
effective  in  tragedy  and  the  higher  range  of 
comedy. 

Without  sinking  individuality  in  his  imitation, 
Cooper  depended  upon  a  certain  imposing  bear- 
ing and  the  power  of  his  well-modulated  voice, 
rather  than  upon  the  strong  and  determined 
effects  of  dramatic  action  which  have  since  his 
time  become  so  popular.  In  such  characters  as 
Damon,  Virginius,  Pierre,  and  William  Tell  he 
found  the  material  for  the  special  exemplification 
of  his  peculiar  powers. 

The  distinction  intended  to  be  suggested  here 


88  COOPER  IN  "VENICE  PRESERVED:' 

is  that  which  exists  between  the  descriptive  lan- 
guage of  human  feeling  and  passion  and  the  more 
realizing  effect  of  those  qualities  when  illustrated 
in  forms  which  present  them  direct  from  the 
sources  of  natural  emotion.  An  exemplification 
of  these  different  modes  of  treatment  may  be  ob- 
served in  a  thoughtful  contemplation  of  the  lan- 
guage used  by  Shakespeare  in  illustrating  men 
and  manners,  and  in  that  of  many  of  the  elder 
dramatists,  as  well  as  in  the  impassioned  poetry 
of  Byron  and  other  writers  of  that  form  of  com- 
position. In  the  one  case  passion  may  be  said  to 
speak  directly  from  the  central  point  of  its  crea- 
tion in  the  human  breast;  in  the  other  it  is  de- 
scribed as  existing  there. 

This  difference  marks  the  dividing-line  between 
dramatic  poetry  and  the  other  forms — epic,  lyric, 
and  ballad. 

The  tendency  to  a  declamatory  style  of  delivery, 
with  a  voice  pleasing  in  melody  and  harmonious  in 
general  effect,  gave  to  Mr.  Cooper's  acting  a  cha- 
racter consonant  with  the  spirit  of  the  following 
lines  from  Otway's  tragedy  of  Venice  Preserved. 
His  acting  of  Pierre  was  considered  a  grand  expo- 
sition of  the  "  romance  of  the  stage." 

JAFFIER. 

I'm  thinking,  Pierre,  how  that  damned  starving  quality 
Called  honesty  got  footing  in  the  world. 

PIERRE. 

Why,  powerful  villainy  first  set  it  up 
For  its  own  ease  and  safety.     Honest  men 


PIERRE  AND    JAFFIER.  89 

Are  the  soft,  easy  cushions  on  which  knaves 
Repose  and  fatten.     Were  all  mankind  villains, 
They'd  starve  each  other;  lawyers  would  want  practice, 
Cut-throats  reward ;  each  man  would  kill  his  brother 
Himself;  none  would  be  paid  or  hanged  for  murder. 
Honesty  !     'Twas  a  cheat  invented  first 
To  bind  the  hands  of  bold,  deserving  rogues, 
That  fools  and  cowards  might  sit  safe  in  power, 
And  lord  it  uncontrolled  above  their  betters. 

JAFFIER. 
Sure,  thou  art  honest  ? 

PIERRE. 

So,  indeed,  men  think  me ; 
But  they're  mistaken,  Jaffier. 
I'm  a  rogue  as  well  as  they — 
A  fine,  gay,  bold-faced  villain,  as  thou  seest  me ! 
'Tis  true  I  pay  my  debts  when  they're  contracted ; 
I  steal  from  no  man ;  would  not  cut  a  throat 
To  gain  admission  to  a  great  man's  purse  or  a  lady's  favor; 
I  scorn  to  flatter 

A  blown-up  fool  above  me,  or  crush  the  wretch  beneath  me ; 
Yet,  Jaffier,  for  all  this,  I  am  a  villain. 

JAFFIER. 
A  villain  ? 

PIERRE. 

Yes,  a  most  notorious  villain — 
To  see  the  sufferings  of  my  fellow-creatures, 
And  own  myself  a  man  ;  to  see  our  senators 
Cheat  the  deluded  people  with  a  show 
Of  liberty,  which  yet  they  ne'er  must  taste  of. 
They  say  by  them  our  hands  are  free  from  fetters, 
Yet  whom  they  please  they  lay  in  basest  bonds ; 
Bring  whom  they  please  to  infamy  and  sorrow ; 
Drive  us  like  wrecks  down  the  rough  tide  of  power, 
Whilst  no  hold's  left  to  save  us  from  destruction. 
8* 


90  MR.    COOPER'S   CHARACTER. 

All  that  bear  this  are  villains,  and  I  one 
Not  to  rouse  up  at  the  great  call  of  Nature 
And  check  the  growth  of  these  domestic  spoilers, 
That  make  us  slaves,  and  tell  us  'tis  our  charter  ! 

Let  the  reader  imagine  the  recital  of  such  Ian- 

o 

guage  by  an  actor  of  manly  form  and  courtly 
bearing,  with  a  fine  resonant  voice,  of  good  com- 
pass, strong  in  head-tones,  musical  in  cadence,  and 
highly  sympathetic,  and  a  lively  impression  will  be 
received  of  the  physical  characteristics  which  made 
Cooper  a  popular  favorite  in  both  comedy  and 
tragedy. 

Mr.  Cooper  was  of  a  proud  and  rather  over- 
bearing disposition,  but  a  well-educated  man  of 
the  world,  and  possessed  of  social  qualities  that 
ensured  him  a  hearty  welcome  in  society.  He  had, 
apparently,  but  little  respect  for  what  the  world 
knows  as  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  For  many 
years  he  lived  at  a  little  villa  on  the  banks  of  the 
Delaware  above  Philadelphia.  His  daughter,  an 
estimable  and  accomplished  lady,  who  was  on  the 
stage  for  a  brief  period,  left  it  to  be  married  to 
Robert  Tyler,  the  son  of  the  ex-President.  During 
the  administration  of  John  Tyler,  he  being  a  wid- 
ower, Mrs.  Robert  Tyler  did  the  honors  of  the 
White  House. 

Our  tragedian  was  one  day  taking  his  usual 
stroll  on  Chestnut  street,  Philadelphia,  when  he 
went  for  a  moment  into  the  old  State-House. 
Judge  Robert  Conrad,  the  well-known  poet  and 
dramatist,  was  presiding  at  court  in  one  of  the 
rooms  appropriated  to  the  holding  of  legal  tribu- 


AN  ANECDOTE   OF   COOPER.  9! 

nals.  David  Paul  Brown,  the  distinguished  crim- 
inal lawyer,  was  addressing  the  jury,  and  seated 
at  the  table  within  the  prescribed  circle  fronting 
the  judges  were  quite  a  number  of  members  of 
the  bar,  while  a  crowd  of  people  sitting  or  stand- 
ing outside  were  watching  the  proceedings  of  the 
court.  The  case  on  trial  was  one  of  public  inte- 
rest in  which  an  Israelite  prominently  figured — 
exactly  how  I  do  not  now  recollect. 

Before  proceeding  with  my  story,  however,  I 
must  say  that  Mr.  Edwin  Thayer,  the  accom- 
plished gentleman  and  elegant  comedian  of  the 
old  school,  as  it  is  termed,  was  a  constant  attend- 
ant at  the  court-house  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  be- 
ing fond  of  public  speaking,  and  more  especially 
of  the  arguments  of  distinguished  lawyers.  He 
was  a  particular  friend  of  Cooper,  though  entirely 
opposite  to  him  in  disposition  and  habits.  Mr. 
Thayer  was  shy  of  public  notice  (aside  from  his 
position  on  the  stage),  refined  in  his  tastes,  and 
punctilious  in  his  deportment;  while  Mr.  Cooper 
was  of  a  free-and-easy  bearing,  fond  of  a  joke, 
and,  for  a  gentleman,  at  times  rather  boisterous 
in  his  manner. 

Mr.  Thayer,  upon  the  occasion  referred  to,  had 
taken  a  seat — which  the  courtesy  of  the  lawyers 
often  afforded  him — within  the  legal  circle,  and 
occupied  rather  a  conspicuous  position.  During 
a  profound  silence,  while  Mr.  Brown  was  looking 
out  an  authority,  Mr.  Thayer  heard  his  name  dis- 
tinctly pronounced ;  looking  up  he  saw,  to  his 
astonishment  and  discomfiture,  the  unmistakable 


92  HON.    WILLIAM  C.   PRESTON. 

personality  of  Mr.  Cooper,  with  eye-glass  in  hand, 
standing  right  in  the  entrance  to  the  inner  bar. 
After  saluting  Thayer  in  the  most  familiar  manner 
and  with  provoking  indifference  to  the  legal  solem- 
nity of  the  surroundings,  the  tragedian  exclaimed, 
in  the  well-known  words  of  Portia  in  the  scene 
with  Shylock,  "  Thayer !  Thayer !  which  is  the 
merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew?" 

As  Mr.  Thayer  afterward  remarked,  he  was 
ready  to  sink  through  the  floor,  while  laughter 
and  confusion  reigned  over  the  scene  in  spite  of 
judicial  and  legal  dignity.  Before  order  was  re- 
stored the  tragedian,  having  dismayed  his  friend 
and  made  his  hit  with  the  audience,  disappeared, 
without  waiting  for  the  anticipated  onslaught  of 
the  tipstaves,  who  were  evidently  ready  to  inves- 
tigate his  case ;  he  having,  in  the  language  of 
the  play,  "  disturbed  cool  Justice  in  her  judg- 
ment-seat" by  raising  laughter  and  exciting  ap- 
plause. 

During  1838  or  '39,  while  acting  in  the  city  of 
Washington,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  Hon.  William  C.  Preston, 
U.  S.  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  and  at  one 
time  president  of  Columbia  College.  Mr.  Pres- 
ton was  a  gentleman  of  very  fine  and  commanding 
appearance,  of  classic  culture  and  refinement,  and 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  orators  of  the  day. 
His  delivery  was  marked  in  an  eminent  degree 
by  all  the  graces  and  beauty  of  a  highly-culti- 
vated and  impressive  style.  His  speaking  in  the 
Senate  Chamber  was  always  sure  to  call  out  a 


MR.    PRESTON'S  REMINISCENCE.  93 

large  audience  of  admirers  who  were  independ- 
ent of  any  political  bias. 

In  the  course  of  a  mid-day  breakfast  (or  lunch, 
as  we  call  it  now)  to  which  I  was  invited  by  Mr. 
Preston,  that  I  might  enjoy  the  society  of  some  of 
his  intimate  friends,  among  the  subjects  discussed 
was  that  of  public  speaking.  Mr.  Preston  re- 
marked that  in  early  life  he  had  not  paid  especial 
attention  to  the  study  of  elocution,  for  which  the 
advantages  offered  in  those  times,  even  in  our  col- 
leges, were  very  limited.  And  to  show  how  he  had 
been  led  to  a  more  determined  practical  consider- 
ation of  the  subject,  he  related  the  following  inci- 
dent, which  occurred  while  he  was  taking  his  final 
course  of  studies  in  the  English  metropolis.  One 
night,  after  having  seen  Macready  act,  while  lying 
awake  revolving  in  his  mind  the  many  ideas  he 
had  received  from  the  finished  acting  of  the  tra- 
gedian, and  the  new  light  which  had  been  shed 
upon  the  author's  language,  he  was  suddenly 
startled  from  his  reverie  and  sprang  from  his 
bed.  The  first  impression  was  that  a  terrible 
crime  was  being  committed,  for  prominent  amidst 
the  unearthly  sounds  which  proceeded  from  the 
apartments  below  the  cry  of  "Murder!"  had 
struck  upon  his  ear,  apparently  gasped  out  in 
agony.  As  he  listened  the  sounds  seemed  to  die 
away  in  suppressed,  smothered  tones.  Again  they 
became  distinctly  audible,  and  the  voice  assumed 
a  weird  character  that  seemed  like  the  meanings 
of  distress,  at  one  time  husky,  and  again  hollow 
and  sepulchral,  with  repeated  exclamations  of 


94        MACREADY'S  MIDNIGHT  REHEARSAL. 

"Sleep  no  more!  sleep  no  more!"  and  "  Mur- 
dered !  murdered  ! "  —  all  suggesting  a  fearful 
nightmare  struggle. 

Astonished  and  bewildered,  Mr.  Preston  stood 
doubting  his  sense  of  hearing  or  the  reality  of  the 
disturbing  sounds,  when  again  came  "  Murdered  ! 
murdered !  murdered ! "  in  every  note  of  the 
gamut.  No  longer  doubting,  he  sprang  to  the 
door  and  called  loudly,  over  the  banisters,  to  the 
dark  void  below,  "  Hallo  there  !  hallo ! "  A  door 
opened,  and  out  flashed  a  candle  and  a  night- 
capped  head.  Then  came  a  voice  saying,  "  Don't 
be  alarmed,  sir ;  don't  be  alarmed ;  it  is  only  Mr. 
Macready  the  tragedian  ;  he  is  dreaming,  or  acting 
in  his  sleep,  or  practising  the  words  of  his  part. 
Don't  be  frightened,  sir;  we  are  all  used  to  such 
things  here,  sir.  We  are  all  used  to  it,  so  don't 
be  alarmed."  The  head  and  the  candle  disap- 
peared, and  Mr.  Preston  returned  to  his  bed.  The 
next  morning  an  apologetic  note  brought  an  ex- 
planation. The  tragedian,  not  being  satisfied  with 
his  treatment  of  the  murder-scene  in  his  last  per- 
formance, had  been  submitting  the  words  "mur- 
der" and  "murdered"  to  a  kind  of  aspirated  and 
husky  utterance  in  different  degrees,  high  and 
low,  and,  becoming  interested  in  the  trial,  had 
forgotten  the  near  proximity  of  the  other  inmates 
of  the  house,  and  had  applied  a  more  than  usual 
degree  of  force  to  his  experiments ;  and  thus  the 
mystery  was  explained. 

"  From  that  hour,"  said  Mr.  Preston,  "  I  deter- 
mined to  pursue  a  different  course  in  my  ora- 


INCAPACITY  TO   REPRODUCE  SOUNDS.        95 

torical  studies,  and  began  to  test  by  practical 
methods  the  power  of  words  and  the  expressive 
character  of  the  tones  severally  belonging  to  their 
different  rates  of  movement,  variety  of  pitch,  and 
other  qualities.  The  consequence  has  been  that 
my  interest  in  language  as  a  medium  of  expres- 
sion has  been  considerably  increased,  my  ear 
better  tuned  to  an  appreciative  state  of  hearing, 
and  my  vocal  powers  very  much  improved." 

A  careful  observation  of  the  sounds  peculiar  to 
the  different  elements  of  speech  has  impressed  me 
with  the  wonderful  differences  in  the  capacity  of 
people  to  reproduce  the  inflections  and  intona- 
tions of  a  teacher's  voice  in  elocutionary  instruc- 
tion, more  especially  where  the  pupil  is  expected 
to  enunciate  as  the  tutor  does  without  the  dis- 
cipline of  elementary  details.  The  incapacity,  in 
such  cases,  arises  either  from  a  lack  of  ear  or 
inability  to  mark  distinctions  in  sound,  or,  if  able 
to  do  that,  a  want  of  ability  to  reproduce  the 
sounds  in  accordance  with  any  example  given  by 
the  voice  of  another. 

Fully  recognizing  these  difficulties,  I  have  often 
had  occasion  to  smile  at  the  painstaking  but  to- 
tally ineffectual  attempts  on  the  part  of  those 
directing  stage-rehearsals  to  teach  a  subordinate 
actor  some  peculiar  but  necessary  mode  of  utter- 
ing a  sentence.  Mr.  Macready,  who  had  drilled 
his  own  voice  to  the  execution  of  the  most  minute 
intervals  in  syllabic  utterance,  was  exceedingly 
desirous  of  having  certain  .words  spoken  in  a  par- 
ticular way,  in  order  that  the  voice  of  the  actor 


96        MACREADY'S  PECULIARITY  OF  VOICE. 

addressing  him  might  be  entirely  in  accord  with 
the  tone  of  the  sentiment  with  which  he  had  to 
reply.  In  an  artistic  sense  this  was  certainly 
proper,  but  I  never  knew  an  instance  where  the 
result  in  such  cases  was  satisfactory.  The  reason 
is  obvious:  the  directions  are  generally  given  in 
a  nomenclature  technical  in  its  character  and  un- 
intelligible to  the  person  addressed,  in  addition 
to  which  the  vocal  organs,  from  want  of  disci- 
pline, are  in  most  cases  totally  unable,  at  the 
command  of  the  will,  to  produce,  without  consid- 
erable previous  practice,  those  effects  which  are 
always  promptly  obedient  to  the  demands  of  emo- 
tion and  passion  when  invoked  by  the  cultivated 
and  experienced  speaker. 

A  very  striking  illustration  of  this  subject  may 
be  found  in  a  stage-story  related  of  Mr.  Macready. 
In  order,  however,  to  give  a  proper  idea  of  the 
point  involved,  it  will  be  necessary  to  call  the 
attention  of  my  readers  to  a  characteristic  pecu- 
liarity of  the  great  tragedian,  the  ordinary  current 
of  whose  articulation  was  marked  by  a  certain 
catching  of  the  breath  preceding  the  utterance 
of  the  initial  syllable  of  certain  words.  A  sudden 
catch  of  the  glottis,  which  causes  a  short,  cough- 
like  sound  to  be  heard  previous  to  the  articulative 
movement  of  the  voice,  was  a  distinctly- marked 
characteristic  of  Kean's  utterance,  never  before 
observed  in  any  other  actor  in  this  country.  This 
peculiar  organic  act  is  the  result  of  a  dropping  of 
the  jaw  and  consequent  depression  of  the  larynx ; 
it  gives  strength  to  the  muscles  which  are  called 


ENGLISH  AFFECTATIONS.  97 

into  play  and  control  the  organs  of  vocality,  thus 
enabling  the  speaker  to  execute  that  abrupt 
movement  by  which  he  expels  the  vowel-sound 
from  what  may  be  called  the  cavernous  parts  of 
the  mouth — that  space  which  includes  the  roots 
of  the  tongue,  the  glottis,  and  pharynx.  This 
power,  when  joined  to  the  guttural  murmur  or 
deeply-aspirated  quality  of  the  voice,  is  a  strong 
element  oL  expressive  force  in  the  suppressive 
utterance  of  passionate  language  in  the  drama. 
Like  in  kind,  but  differing  in  degree  of  force  to 
the  vocal  catch  of  the  glottis  which  I  have  referred 
to,  is  that  remarkable  effect  so  observable  among 
public-speaking  Englishmen,  who  exhibit  a  kind 
of  iterated  murmur  along  with  an  apparent  hesi- 
tation, as  it  were,  in  the  choice  of  words,  recalling 
the  one  last  uttered  to  supply  its  place  with  one 
more  appropriate ;  it  is  this  that  causes  that  soft 
rattling  sound  in  the  throat  which  resembles  the 
closely-repeated  utterance  of  the  letter  u  as  heard 
in  up,  and  forms  a  sort  of  muttering  or  grumbling 
effect  of  voice.  I  have  attempted  to  explain  this 
manner  of  speech,  because  I  wish  to  show  that  it 
can  be  traced  back  as  far  as  to  the  personal  pro- 
nunciation of  King  George  the  Third.  Dr.  John 
Walcott,  in  a  poem  ridiculing  the  king,  says  of 
his  eccentricities  of  speech — 

And  lo  !  no  single  thing  came  in  his  way 
That,  full  of  deep  research,  he  did  not  say, 
"  What's  this?     Hay!  hay?     What's  that? 
What's  that  ?     What's  this  ?     What's  that? 


98       WILKINSON'S  IMITATION  OF  GARRICK. 

"True,"  said  the  cautious  monarch  with  a  smile, 
"  From  malt — malt — malt —    I  meant  malt 

All  the  while. 

I  did,  I  did,  I  did,  I,  I,  I,  I!" 

So  quick  the  words  too  when  he  deigned  to  speak, 

As  if  each  syllable  would  break  its  neck. 

Such  was  the  singular  habit  of  speech  which  made 
the  old  king  the  object  of  ridicule  among  his  sub- 
jects. There  is  no  doubt  that  Garrick — who  was 
nothing  if  not  in  the  fashion,  especially  in  court- 
matters — mimicked  this  peculiarity  of  the  king, 
and  finally  came  to  adopt  it  in  his  own  conver- 
sation off  the  stage.  This  was  sufficient  to  make 
it  fashionable  among  those  who  imitated  the  great 
actor's  mode  of  talking.  Tate  Wilkinson,  who 
used  to  mimic  Garrick's  manner  in  conversation, 
gave  great  prominence  to  his  habit  of  quick  speech 
and  repetition  of  phrases  in  taking  off  the  theatri- 
cal monarch.  The  following  will  give  some  idea 
of  Wilkinson's  imitation  :  "  Hey  !  now,  Wilkie,  you 
know,  Wilkie,  you  m-mustn't,  uh,  m-mustn't  take 
me  o-off,  in-in  your-r  devilish  funny  wa-a-y  u-uv 
making  people  1-1-laugh,  uh-uh-you  know,  be- 
cause, uh,  you  know,  Wilkie,  it  doesn't  do,  you,  uh, 
know,  to  make  your-r  manager  ridiculous,  uh-uh, 
you  know.'* 

Although  a  great  mimic  himself,  and  in  the  habit 
of  taking  off  others  in  a  most  unwarrantable  style, 
as  it  is  said,  Garrick  was  very  sensitive  about  the 
mimicry  of  his  own  personal  traits.  Foote's  imi- 
tation of  Garrick's  dying-scene  in  Lothario  was  an 
annoyance  to  Garrick  and  a  delight  to '  the  town, 


MACREADY' S  EVENING   RECEPTION.          99 

particularly  at  the  concluding  words  :  "Adorns  my 
tale,  and  che-che-che-che-che-cheers  my  heart  in 
dy-dy-dy-dying." 

Now,  next  in  line  of  succession,  as  we  may  say, 
was  the  elder  Kean,  who  when  a  boy  picked  up 
this  "  trick  of  the  tongue  "  from  some  follower  of 
Garrick,  and  for  the  special  effect  he  saw  in  it 
grafted  it  on  the  stock  of  his  own  manner  of 
speech.  But  in  Kean's  case  the  catch  of  the 
glottis  became  a  more  positive  movement  than 
that  used  in  conversation,  and  in  connection  with 
his  other  strongly- marked  modes  of  utterance 
gave  a  wonderful  and  even  startling  effect  to  his 
delivery.  In  Kean's  time  the  imitators  were  nu- 
merous, and  finally  Mr.  Macready  caught  the  infec- 
tion ;  and,  as  every  habit  with  that  gentleman 
became  second  nature,  he  employed  the  catch  of 
the  glottis  until  it  became  strongly  characteristic 
of  his  speech  on  and  off  the  stage. 

At  the  time  I  retired  from  the  stage  to  lecture 
upon,  and  teach  the  principles  of,  Rush's  Philoso- 
phy of  the  Voice — I  think  about  1843 — m  tne  a^- 
joining  law-offices  of  the  Hon.  George  S.  Hillard 
and  the  Hon.  Charles  Sumner  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  and  becoming  acquainted  with  Mr. 
William  Macready.  At  the  close  of  his  American 
engagements,  and  before  sailing  for  Europe,  he 
took  leave  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances  at 
an  evening  reception  given  by  him  in  the  spacious 
and  elegant  rooms  of  Papanti,  Boston's  celebrated 
dancing-master.  The  evening  was  occupied  first 
with  readings  from  Shakespeare  and  other  poets, 


100  AN  INDIGNANT   TRAGEDIAN. 

and  thereafter  with  a  supper  and  social  enjoyment. 
I  well  remember  the  admiration  with  which  I  be- 
held an  elegant  and  refined  gentleman  offering  an 
intellectual  feast  by  his  readings  and  recitations  to 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  a  metropolis  celebrated  for  its  refinement 
and  cultivated  taste,  and  then  mingling  with  the 
assemblage  and  courteously  discharging  the  duties 
of  a  host.  In  contemplating  such  a  scene  I  was 
glad  to  acknowledge  Mr.  Macready  as  a  represen- 
tative man  of  the  profession  of  which  I  was  a 
member. 

The  next  morning,  while  enjoying  a  pleasant 
chat  with  Mr.  Hillard,  Mr.  Macready  came  in  and 
began  an  open  conversation  with  Mr.  Sumner, 
who  acted  as  his  legal  adviser  in  a  friendly  way. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  letter  from  Papanti,  and 
appeared  to  be  much  irritated  on  account  of  a 
misunderstanding  by  which  some  extras  had  been 
introduced  into  his  bill  that  the  agreement  did  not 
justify.  He  became  excited,  and  spoke  with  great 
decision  and  ^>ra:ision.  I  was  struck  at  once  with 
the  similarity  of  his  every-day  style  of  impressive 
speech  to  Jhis  dramatic  method  of  dealing  with 
language,  and  was  convinced  that  his  peculiarity 
of  utterance  in  each  case  was  a  trick,  as  it  were, 
of  custom,  rather  than  the  result  of  intention.  It 
is  astonishing  how  easily  persons  may  acquire 
habits  of  speech  of  which  they  may  be  uncon- 
scious, and  from  which  they  are  seldom  free. 

"  But,  Mr.  Sumner,"  said  Mr.  Macready,  "  the 
thing  doesn't  admit  of  a-a-argument.  Mr.  Papanti, 


MACREADY'S  CONVERSATIONAL   STYLE.     IOI 

I  have  n-no  doubt,  is  a  very  good  person,  but 
e-e-evidently  his  memory  is  not  as  good  a-a-as  his 
manners.  He  has  made  the  mistake  to  which  he 
alludes,  and  not  i-I-I.  The  proposition  was  his ;  I 
accepted  it,  and  have  complied  with  the  agreement 
literally.  I  shall  not,  under  present  circumstances, 
reconsider  the  matter.  As  long  as  M-I  know  I 
a-a-am  right  I  shall  consider  Mr.  Papanti  wrong ; 
and  if  he  applies  to  you,  why  tell  him,  if  you 
please,  that  my  m-m-mind  is  made  up — positively, 
positively,  and  therefore  Mr.  Papanti  will  a-a-act 
as  he  pleases ;  but  I  must  say  his  present 
m-m-method  does  not  please  me.  Pray  excuse  my 
positiveness,  but  plain  talk  saves  time."  * 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember  such  were  Mr. 
Macready's  words,  and  as  nearly  as  I  can  here 
reproduce  a  very  strong  impression  such  was  his 
manner  of  speaking.  In  connection  with  this  sub- 
ject I  will  mention  an  incident  showing  something 
of  the  tragedian's  method  at  rehearsal. 

The  play  was  Macbeth.  An  actor  slow  of  speech 
and  dull  of  comprehension  was  to  deliver  the  lines 
of  the  terrified  messenger  who  announces  the  su- 
pernatural coming  of  Birnam  Wood.  Being  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  execute  the  directions  given 
to  him — as  justice  compels  me  to  acknowledge  is 
generally  the  case  with  subordinate  performers — 
he  listened  attentively  to  the  preparatory  remarks 
by  which  the  tragedian  endeavored  to  inform  him 

*  The  hesitating  articulative  utterance  of  the  initial  vowel  of  some  of  the 
words  indicated  by  a  repetition  in  smaller  type  is  in  reality  more  like  a 
slight  muttering  of  the  letter  u  as  heard  in  up  than  the  sound  of  any  other 
letter. 

9* 


102  "MACBETH"  REHEARSED. 

how  very  important  it  was  to  him  (Macbeth)  to 
have  the  news  properly  enunciated.  This  state- 
ment, made  in  the  measured  tones  of  Mr.  Macrea- 
dy,  was  quite  sufficient  to  render  the  man  nervous, 
and  he  began  in  faltering  accents — entirely  nat- 
ural to  him  at  least,  considering  his  situation  and 
the  state  of  his  mind — 

"As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  looked  towards  Birnam,  and  anon 
Methought  the  wood  began  to  move." 

To  which  Macbeth  replied — 
"Liar  and  slave!" 

Falling  on  his  knees,  the  messenger  continued, 
in  a  still  greater  perturbation  of  manner — 

"  Let  me  endure  your  wrath  if  it  be  not  true. 
Within  these  three  miles  you  may  see  it  a-coming." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  the  disgusted  tragedian ; 
"  that  won't  do,  sir — a-coming  won't  do.  Try  it 
again,  sir,  and  don't  say  a-coming." 

Again  the  messenger  essayed  his  task. 

"Within  these  three  miles  you  may  see  it a-coming." 

Mr.  Macready :  "Good  Heavens,  sir!  have  you 
no  ears?  You  are  not  speaking  common  lan- 
guage ;  it  is  blank  verse,  sir,  and  a  single  mis- 
placed syllable  destroys  the  metre.  Now,  sir, 
you  say  'a-coming;'  don't  you  perceive  that  the 
a  is  a  gratuitous  sound?  You  know  how  to 


THE  MESSENGER'S  RETORT.  1 03 

spell  coming,  which  begins  with  a  c — no  preced- 
ing sound  of  a;  therefore  you  should  say, 

'  Within  these  three  miles  you  may  see  it  a-a-coming. ' ' 

Once  more  the  now  bewildered  actor  began, 
but  in  a  still  less  confident  manner  than  before, 
feeling  that  the  difficulty  was  growing,  if  possible, 
more  complicated,  the  reference  to  that  terrible 
"blank  verse"  being  to  his  mind  as  unintelligi- 
ble as  Greek. 

"  Go  on,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Macready. 

"Within  these  three  miles  you  may  see  it — may  see  it — it — " 

And,  in  spite  of  all  his  desire  to  avoid  the  rock 
ahead,  the  objectionable  a  asserted  the  power  of 
habit,  and  "a-coming"  bolted  out  with  frightful 
distinctness. 

Turning  to  the  stage-manager,  who  was  trying 
to  keep  his  countenance,  the  discomfited  trage- 
dian exclaimed  in  despair,  "  He  cannot  do  it,  sir  ; 
he  would  if  he  could,  but  he  cannot." 

To  which  the  mortified  messenger,  in  justifi- 
cation of  his  failure,  replied,  "  Mr.  Macready,  I 
don't  see  the  difference  between  my  way  of  doing 
it  and  yours,  unless  it  is  that  I  put  only  one  a 
before  '  coming,'  and  you  put  half  a  dozen  little 
ones." 

This  was  virtually  the  fact:  the  one  a  of  the 
actor  was  the  result  of  a  vulgar  habit,  while  the 
stammering  hesitation  of  the  tragedian  was  a  bad 
habit,  though  not  a  vulgar  one. 


104  A   FRIGHTENED  ACTOR. 

I  am  here  reminded  also  of  a  somewhat  sim- 
ilar occurrence  which  was  publicly  exhibited  on 
the  Boston  stage,  and  with  a  much  more  tragic 
result. 

On  Mr.  Macready's  last  visit  to  this  country 
the  regular  managers  had  refused  to  give  him 
the  usual  star  terms ;  in  consequence  of  which 
an  "outside  manager"  engaged  him,  and  convert- 
ed one  of  the  large  halls  into  a  theatre  as  a  spec- 
ulation. The  result  was,  that  while  Mr.  Macready 
made  money  the  admirers  of  the  drama,  though 
satisfied  with  his  finished  and  beautiful  perform- 
ances, had  reason  to  complain  of  the  insufficiency 
of  the  subordinate  elements  employed  in  his  sup- 
port. As  Miss  Cushman,  however,  performed  the 
leading  female  character,  there  was  no  room  for 
dissatisfaction  with  that  part  of  the  entertainment, 
although  she  had  not  then  attained  the  full  height 
of  her  popularity.  The  play  upon  this  occasion 
also  was  Macbeth,  and,  notwithstanding  sundry 
general  deficiencies,  nothing  especial  occurred  to 
mar  the  admirable  performances  of  Macbeth  and 
his  consort  until  the  fifth  act,  when  matters  cul- 
minated. 

The  usurping  thane,  lashed  by  despair  into  a 
state  of  fury — asserting  his  defiance  and  scorn 
for  the  avenging  powers  that  were  beleaguering 
his  castle — is  suddenly  confronted  by  the  trem- 
bling bearer  of  ill-omened  news,  and  stands  defi- 
antly awaiting  the  doom  of  fate.  "  My  lord — my 
lord — "  began  the  hesitating  and  breathless  actor, 
who,  being  a  novice,  was  more  frightened  than  the 


AN  ENRAGED    TRAGEDIAN.  1 05 

messenger  himself  could  have  been,  especially  as 
he  had  no  doubt  undergone  the  usual  verbal  cas- 
tigation  of  the  morning  rehearsal — "  My  lord — my 
lord — "  said  the  messenger ;  then  a  pause. 

u  Go  on,  sir — go  on,  sir,"  came  in  suppressed 
tones  from  the  tragedian.  "  Go  on,  sir." 

"  My  lord,  as  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  looked— I  looked— " 

"  Well,  sir — well,  sir  ?  What  then  ?  what  then  ? 
Go  on,  go  on,  sir ! "  said  Mr.  Macready  in  a 
fierce,  husky  whisper. 

The  audience  now  began  to  titter,  and  the  be- 
wildered actor  made  a  desperate  effort,  and  started 
afresh  : 

"  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  looked  toward  -Birnam,  and  anon — anon — ' ' 

But  here,  alas !  nerve  failed  as  well  as  memory, 
and,  though  the  prompter's  voice  was  ringing  in 
his  ears,  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat  and  would 
not  out. 

Mr.  Macready,  who  had  been  working  himself 
up  for  the  great  point  of  the  scene,  at  last  broke 
out  with  the  text,  "  Liar  and  slave !  "  at  the  same 
time  striking  with  his  truncheon  at  the  messenger, 
who  fell  upon  his  knees,  wildly  shrieking,  "  As  I 
did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill — "  But  the 
audience  was  now  in  a  roar  and  Mr.  Macready 


m  a  rage. 


"Get  off,  sir!  get  off!"  hissed  from  between  the 
tragedian's  set  teeth  as  he  rushed  up  the  stage  in 


106        JOHN   TAYLOR  AND    JOHN  KEMBLE. 

a  white  heat  of  fury,  while  the  messenger,  choking 
with  fright,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  bolted  off  as  if 
shot  from  a  cannon,  amid  shouts  of  laughter  from 
the  audience,  now  as  completely  demoralized  as 
the  tragedian  himself. 

This  incident  shows  something  of  the  nervous 
and  irritable  nature  of  Mr.  Macready,  and  how 
while  performing  he  became  subject  to  a  person- 
ality of  feeling  rather  than  absorbed  in  that  broad 
and  comprehensive  abstraction  or  ideal  fervor 
through  which,  in  a  certain  sense,  self  becomes 
merged  in  enthusiastic  fellowship  with  the  lan- 
guage of  the  drama. 

Had  such  an  accident  occurred  to  the  elder 
Booth,  he  would  have  covered  up  the  "  effect  de- 
fective," and  saved  the  man  from  disgrace  and 
himself  from  mortification  by  one  of  those  impro- 
vised efforts  in  stage-business  for  which  he  was  so 
famous. 

John  Taylor,  a  London  editor  and  critic  of  ce- 
lebrity,* wrote :  "  I  was  at  first  so  little  an  admirer 
of  John  Kemble's  performance  of  Hamlet  that, 
considering  it  stiff,  conceited,  and  unnatural,  I 
wrote  four  epigrams  in  ironical  commendation  of 
it,  and  inserted  them  together  in  a  public  print 
which  I  then  conducted.  The  late  Mr.  Francis 
Twiss,  who  took  a  strong  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  Mr.  Kemble,  introduced  me  to  him  in  the  lobby 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  I  had  just  before  seen 

*  John  Taylor  was  the  author  of  the  old-time  ballad  of  "  Monsieur 
Tonson  Come  again."  Planche  founded  his  amusing  farce  of  that  name 
on  the  poem. 


KEMBLE'S  MISTAKEN  AMBITION.  1 07 

him  point  Kemble's  notice  to  me,  and  heard  him 
whisper  the  word  *  epigrams.'  I  was  therefore  not 
prepared  for  the  unaffected  civility  with  which  he 
addressed  me.  We  immediately  fell  into  conver- 
sation, and  I  remember  that  Mr.  Kemble  very 
soon  began  a  defence  of  declamation,  stating  it 
as  originally  constituting  one  of  the  chief  features 
of  theatrical  excellence  on  the  Grecian  stage. 

"  Mr.  Kemble's  classical  and  general  knowledge 
and  the  courtesy  of  his  manners,  as  well  as  his 
improving  theatrical  powers,  procured  him  high 
and  extensive  connections.  He  kept  a  hospitable 
and  elegant  table,  without  display.  He  was  fond 
of  Dryden,  and  sometimes  read  to  me  passages 
from  that  admirable  poet.  I  do  not  think  he  was 
a  good  reader,  for  he  generally  read  in  a  tone 
either  too  low  or  too  high.  There  is  obviously 
but  one  tone  in  reading  or  acting  that  excites  the 
sympathy  of  the  hearer,  and  that  is  the  tone  which 
feeling  suggests  and  expresses ;  and  such  was  the 
charm  of  Garrick,  which  rendered  his  acting  in 
tragedy  or  comedy  impressive  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. Kemble,  with  all  his  professional  judgment, 
skill,  and  experience,  like  all  other  mortals,  was 
sometimes  induced  to  mistake  the  natural  direc- 
tion of  his  powers,  and  to  suppose  that  he  was  as 
much  patronized  by  the  Comic  as  by  the  Tragic 
Muse.  When  I  called  on  him  one  morning  he 
was  sitting  in  his  great  chair  with  his  night-cap  on, 
and,  as  he  told  me,  cased  in  flannel.  Immediately 
after  the  customary  salutation  he  said,  *  Taylor,  I 
am  studying  a  new  part  in  a  popular  comedy,  and 


108      REYNOLDS' 'S  ANECDOTE   OF  KEMBLE. 

I  should  like  to  know  your  opinion  as  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  I  am  likely  to  perform  it/ — '  As  you 
tell  me  it  is  a  comic  part/  said  I,  '  I  presume  it  is 
what  you  style  "intellectual  comedy/'  such  as  the 
chief  characters  in  Congreve,  Wycherley,  and 
Vanbrugh/ — 'What  do  you  think/  said  he, ''of 
Charles  in  The  School  for  Scandal?' — 'Why/  said 
I,  '  Charles  is  a  gay,  free-spirited,  convivial  fellow/ 
— '  Yes/  said  he, '  but  Charles  is  a  gentleman/  He 
tried  the  part,  but  his  gayety  did  not  seem  to  the 
town  to  be  of  the  right  flavor." 

Mr.  Reynolds,  the  author  of  a  score  of  lively 
comedies  justly  popular  on  the  English  stage 
within  the  early  part  of  the  present  century, 
writing  of  John  P.  Kemble,  says :  "  In  several 
characters — particularly  in  those  of  The  Roman 
and  The  'Misanthrope — he  was  unquestionably  the 
finest  actor  I  ever  saw,  and  off  the  stage  his  un- 
affected simplicity  of  manner  rendered  him  most 
pleasing  and  entertaining.  One  instance  of  this 
simplicity  I  well  remember.  Meeting  him  at  a 
dinner  in  the  city  not  long  after  he  had  performed 
Charles  in  The  School  for  Scandal,  when  our  flat- 
tering host,  asserting  that  this  character  had  been 
lost  to  the  stage  since  the  days  of  Smith,  added 
that  Kemble's  performance  of  it  should  be  consid- 
ered as  '  Charles's  Restoration/  To  this  a  less 
complimentary  guest  replied,  in  an  under  tone, 
evidently  intending  not  to  be  heard  by  the  subject 
of  his  remark,  that  in  his  opinion  this  perform- 
ance should  rather  be  considered  as  '  Charles's 
Martyrdom/  Our  witty  critic,  however,  did  not 


KEMBLE'S  STORY  ABOUT  HIMSELF.        1 09 

speak  so  low  but  that  the  great  tragedian  heard 
him,  when,  to  our  surprise  and  amusement,  in- 
stead of  manifesting  indignation  and  making  a 
scene,  he  smiled  and  said,  *  Well,  now,  that  gen- 
tleman is  not  altogether  singular  in  his  opinion, 
as,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I  will  prove  to  you.  A 
few  months  ago,  having  unfortunately  taken  what 
is  usually  called  a  glass  too  much,  on  my  return 
late  at  night  I  inadvertently  quarrelled  with  a 
gentleman  in  the  street  This  gentleman  very 
properly  called  on  me  the  following  morning  for 
an  explanation  of  what  was  certainly  more  acci- 
dental than  intentional.  "Sir,"  said  I,  "when  I 
commit  an  error  I  am  always  ready  to  atone  for 
it,  and  if  you  will  only  name  any  reasonable  rep- 
aration in  my  power,  I — "  "  Sir,"  interrupted  the 
gentleman,  "at  once  I  meet  your  proposal,  and 
name  one.  Solemnly  promise  me,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  my  friend,  that  you  will  never  play 
Charles  Surface  again,  and  I  am  perfectly  satis- 
fied."— Well,  I  did  promise,  not  from  nervosity, 
as  you  may  suppose,  gentlemen,  but  because, 
though  Sheridan  was  pleased  to  say  that  he  liked 
me  in  the  part,  I  certainly  did  not  like  myself  in 
it — no,  no  more  than  that  gentleman  who  has 
just  done  me  the  favor  to  call  it  "Charles's 
Martyrdom." ' 

"  Kemble  on  many  previous  occasions  having 
publicly  proved  his  courage,  I  need  not  add  that 
we  were  all  convinced  that  on  this  occasion  he 
was  only  actuated  by  good  taste  and  good  na- 


ture." 


10 


CHAPTER   VI. 

SHAKESPEARE  AND   DRAMATIC  ART—MACREA- 
DTS   WERNER. 

"D  EADERS  and  actors  are  generally  too  much 
given  to  an  idea  that  where  a  character  is 
placed  in  a  position  to  require  a  change  of  dress 
or  of  voice  in  order  to  disguise  its  personality,  it 
becomes  necessary  for  the  impersonator  to  make 
the  deception  so  complete — that  is,  so  natural,  as 
it  is  termed — that  the  mask  assumed  may  not 
be  penetrated  by  those  whom  it  was  intended  to 
deceive. 

Now,  where  such  transformations  are  intro- 
duced in  the  action  of  a  play  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  they  are  meant  to  impose  only  on  the 
personages  of  the  scene.  As  far  as  deception 
goes,  the  actors  and  auditors  are  in  the  author's 
secret,  and  consequently  they  accept  the  disguise 
as  a  part  of  the  play,  and  thus  it  may  be  said  to 
pass  current  with  them  as  theatrical  coin. 

The  character  of  Portia  in  The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice we  will  cite  as  illustrating  our  meaning.  Besides 
assuming  the  costume  of  a  doctor  of  laws,  sup- 
pose the  actress  should  think  it  advisable,  in  order 
to  make  the  disguise  complete  in  the  sense  we 
have  spoken  of,  to  adopt  a  moustache,  together 
no 


THE  FEMININITY  OF  PORTIA.  Ill 

with  the  masculine  voice  and  professional  tone 
of  a  veritable  advocate,  in  order  to  make  good 
her  legal  pretensions  to  the  court.  Under  such 
circumstances  would  not  the  impersonator  of 
Portia,  by  attempting  to  put  on  a  masculine  man- 
ner and  tone  of  voice,  destroy  in  the  minds  of 
her  hearers  all  the  tender  interest  which  arises 
from  the  sweet  womanly  tones  of  Portia's  plead- 
ings, so  necessary  for  the  proper  realization  of 
that  touching  appeal  for  mercy  by  which  Shake- 
speare's heroine  sought  to  soften  the  rigor  of  the 
Jew's  stern  plea  for  justice  ?  Are  those  beautiful 
effects  in  the  ideal  forms  of  dramatic  representa- 
tion to  be  impaired — nay,  destroyed — by  the  chill- 
ing hand  of  precision,  introducing  some  gratuitous 
reality  in  order  to  prevent  the  possible  misappre- 
hension on  the  part  of  the  audience  of  some  imag- 
inary effect  only  intended  by  the  author  to  be  seen 
through  the  medium  of  the  mind's  eye  ? 

But  Shakespeare  himself  has  made  all  such  pre- 
cautionary "  appliances  and  means  to  boot "  of  no 
avail  by  ushering  Portia  into  the  court  with  his 
magic  wand,  thus  compelling  the  spectator  to  real- 
ize in  the  person  of  the  actress  a  real  advocate 
who  knew  the  law  and  could  construe  it  faithfully, 
notwithstanding  the  womanly  voice  and  imperfec- 
tions of  mere  legal  trappings. 

Portia  is  thus  made  a  proper  representative  of 
law.  Therefore,  the  actress  is  not  only  allowed, 
but  expected,  to  employ  her  own  peculiar  feminine 
vocality  in  her  pleading,  while  she  is  at  liberty  to 
adopt  as  much  or  as  little  as  likes  her  best  of  mas- 


112  ROSALIND   IN  "AS   YOU  LIKE  IT." 

culine  firmness  and  depth  of  tone  that  a  female 
voice  may  assume  without  making  it  harsh  to  her 
hearers.  Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It  was  per- 
formed for  more  than  half  a  century  with  young 
men  acting  Rosalind  and  Celia :  from  this  we  may 
suppose  that  the  male  performers  had  to  change 
the  tones  of  their  voices  in  order  to  give  effect  to 
the  feminine  graces  of  the  characters  they  assumed. 
When  Rosalind  put  on  her  male  attire  the  actor 
no  doubt  resumed  his  natural  tones,  but  this  must 
have  been  in  a  modified  form,  so  that  he  might 
present  in  some  degree  at  least  the  feminine  del- 
icacy and  tenderness  of  Rosalind.  Unless  this 
had  been  the  case,  the  audience  might  have  been 
unfavorably  impressed  by  a  too  strongly-colored 
personation  of  the  young  forester.  Now,  as  to  the 
Rosalind  of  to-day,  just  in  proportion  as  she  might 
succeed  in  imposing  a  certain  masculine  dash  of 
manner  upon  the  auditor  as  befitting  her  doublet 
and  hose,  she  would  run  the  risk  of  presenting 
the  features  "  of  a  very  forward  March  chick  of  the 
male  kind  " — a  poor  substitute  indeed  for  the  pic- 
ture of  a  brilliant  and  sensitive  female  who  from 
necessity  had  been  compelled  to  assume  the  male 
costume. 

In  fine,  Rosalind,  by  putting  on  a  too  know- 
ing manner  of  manhood,  must  as  a  consequence 
throw  into  shade  those  feminine  traits  of  speech 
peculiar  to  an  artless  girlish  character,  while  the 
delicacy  and  grace  of  action  inseparable  from  wo- 
manly taste  and  cultivation  would,  by  the  obtru- 
sion of  a  marked  masculine  manner,  be  sacrificed 


THE  LITTLE  REALISM  IN  SHAKESPEARE.   113 

to  flippancy  of  gesture  and  pertness  of  expres- 
sion. 

A  just  and  critical  application  of  that  principle 
which  Hamlet  termed  "discretion"  to  our  studies 
of  dramatic  character  and  situation  must  lead  us 
to  perceive  that  it  is  the  poet's  art  which  makes 
us  accept  as  naturally  efficient  the  disguises  as- 
sumed by  Portia  and  Rosalind  and  numerous 
others  in  the  same  line  of  dramatic  action ;  and 
we  are  content  to  be  deceived  by  the  maskers  in 
consideration  of  the  pleasure  we  enjoy  in  realizing 
the  deception.  Therefore,  it  must  be  conceded 
that  all  overstrained  and  far-fetched  attempts  on 
the  part  of  impersonators  to  reconcile  and  make 
plain  cause  and  effect  in  dramatic  situations  must 
result  in  defeating  the  very  object  the  dramatist 
has  in  view ;  which  is  to  create  in  the  mind  of  his 
auditors  an  impression  of  naturalness  in  order  that 
his  language,  through  the  medium  of  their  excited 
imaginations,  may  people  his  mimic  world  with 
living,  thinking,  and  acting  beings. 

Shakespeare's  dramas  show  how  little  compara- 
tively their  author  relied  on  mere  physical  or  me- 
chanical action  for  effects.  His  main  dependence 
was  on  his  language,  on  his  ability  to  enthuse  each 
form  with  the  life  and  soul  of  his  glorious  imagery, 
his  sparkling  fancy,  and  all  the  unbounded  wealth 
of  his  expressive  power.  With  such  forces,  guided 
by  his  all-seeing  observation,  which  scanned  alike 
the  simple  and  the  complex  of  all  Nature's  works, 
animate  or  inanimate,  the  mighty  maker  of  the 
English  drama  was  able  to  depict  humanity  in 
10*  H 


114          MACREADY'S  ART   TOO   ARTISTIC. 

every  condition  of  mind,  soul,  and  body.  It  is 
only  from  such  a  comprehensive  view  of  Nature 
in  art  that  the  Shakespearian  student  can  hope  to 
acquire  the  ability  to  give  fitting  expression  to  the 
thoughts  and  passions  which  agitate  the  human 
soul,  and  should  be  reflected  in  the  mirror  held 
up  to  Nature  by  the  stage  and  the  platform. 

The  only  way  by  which  the  reader  or  actor  can 
reach  the  sympathies  and  affections  of  the  human 
heart  is  through  the  magnetic  power  of  the  voice. 
When  that  delicate  organism,  which  produces  the 
broad  effects  and  nice  distinctions  in  kind  and  de- 
gree of  expressive  vocality,  is  subjected  to  true 
feeling,  good  taste,  and  judgment,  then  may  Shake- 
speare's creations  be  transformed  from  the  dead 
letter  of  the  printed  page  to  that  stage  of  action 
where  they  first  drew  breath  and  looked  and 
moved  as  living  things. 

MACREADY. 

I  propose  to  show  that  the  tragedian's  art  in 
Mr.  Macready's  case  was  so  elaborate  and  aesthetic 
that  it  asserted  its  perfections  to  the  auditor  as 
fully  as  it  claimed  his  delight  and  admiration  for 
the  beauties  of  its  execution.  In  other  words, 
Macready's  art  exhibited  the  art  too  fully. 

Who  is  not  conscious  of  the  fact  that  lasting 
impressions  are  made  upon  the  heart  and  brain, 
which,  though  stamped  with  sufficient  force  for 
retention,  become  obscured  by  time,  only  remem- 
bered, it  may  be,  in  our  dreams,  and  sometimes 
flashed  into  recollection  by  sudden  and  accidental 


MA  CREAD  Y  AS  HAMLET.  1 1 5 

associations,  but  always  lingering  round  the  heart, 
subject  to  the  power  of  a  kindred  spirit  in  Nature's 
realms  of  form,  color,  and  sound  to  conjure  them 
into  life  again  ?  Such  sympathies  of  the  soul  are 
often  wrought  upon  and  excited  by  the  voice  and 
spirit  of  the  actor  in  the  utterance  of  the  author's 
language,  as  well  as  by  its  sentiment ;  and  when 
the  chord  is  struck  whose  vibrations  reproduce 
such  intermingling  memories,  the  auditor  feels 
and  acknowledges  a  power  coexistent  with  the- 
voice  of  Nature — a  subtle  power  defying  the  abil- 
ity of  tongue  or  pen  to  describe  its  charms. 

Fortunate  and  happy  must  the  orator  or  actor 
be  who  from  intent  and  purpose  or  accidental 
cause  possesses  the  ability  to  strike  such  chords 
in  the  human  heart  and  draw  his  audience  to  him 
by  such  natural  affinities.  As  a  well-painted  pic- 
ture, harmonious  in  its  details,  well  executed  in 
perspective,  perfect  in  light  and  shade,  and  striking 
in  its  objective  point  of  sight,  natural  in  tone  and 
color,  appropriately  framed  and  artistically  hung, 
fills  the  eye  of  the  beholder  with  pleasure,  so 
was  Macready's  Hamlet  an  object  of  infinite  de- 
light to  the  auditor.  It  was  almost  universally 
considered  the  masterpiece  of  England's  most  art- 
istic and  intellectual  tragedian.  Yet  in  a  dramatic 
sense,  from  the  standpoint  of  natural  effect,  it  was 
merely  a  picture  of  the  melancholy  and  still  in- 
tensely impassioned  child  of  sorrow  and  affliction. 
We  mean  that  it  was  such  a  picture  that  one 
might  stand  before  it  entranced  in  a  generalism 
of  human  sympathies,  and  yet  it  lacked  any 


II 6    MACREADY'S   YOUTHFUL   NATURALNESS. 

strongly  individual  or  central  point  of  affinity. 
How  often  do  we  hear  the  remark,  "That  is  a 
beautiful  or  highly-finished  picture  of  such  or  such 
a  one,"  or,  "That  is  a  speaking  likeness  of  my 
friend ;  he  talks  to  me  from  the  canvas,  and  yet  I 
confess  it  might  be  more  artistically  executed  in 
detail"! 

Such  a  distinction  between  the  merits  of  per- 
formers equally  distinguished  for  dramatic  excel- 
lence may  serve  to  point  the  difference  of  impres- 
sion made  upon  auditors  of  equal  discernment 
and  cultivation  in  the  delineative  effects  of  the 
stage,  the  one  preferring  the  simple  and  natural 
speaking  likeness,  while  the  other  accepts  the 
high  art  of  the  elaborated  portrait  of  human 
nature. 

Mr.  Macready,  we  have  been  told  by  the  late 
Professor  William  Russell,  who  was  his  townsman, 
possessed  in  his  youth  a  voice  of  great  clearness, 
compass,  and  beauty.  He  was  distinguished  by  a 
fine  manly  bearing,  and  was  unaffected  in  his  style 
of  speech  and  ardent  and  impulsive  in  his  dispo- 
sition. His  declamation  at  school  was  marked  by 
poetic  fervor  and  exquisite  taste,  while  his  voice 
showed  good  training  and  perfect  obedience  to 
command.  Direct  from  college,  he  entered  upon 
his  dramatic  course  with  all  the  accomplishments 
which  mark  the  scholar  and  the  gentleman. 

The  history  of  his  professional  career  as  a 
young  man  in  London  is  only  a  repetition  of  the 
old  story  of  an  artist's  struggles  between  neces- 
sity and  choice — on  the  one  hand  love  of  art  and 


HE   ADOPTS   THE   STYLE   OF  OTHERS.      117 

devotion  to  its  principles ;  on  the  other,  love  of 
praise  and  money  and  neglect  of  the  interests  of 
true  art. 

His  performances,  though  eliciting  the  admira- 
tion of  the  intelligent  and  critical,  and  giving  sat- 
isfaction to  the  public  as  those  of  a  rising  and 
promising  actor,  yet  failed  from  lack  of  managerial 
influence  to  meet  with  popular  success ;  therefore 
he  did  not  pass  as  current  coin  in  the  market  of 
dramatic  values.  In  fine,  his  performances  lacked 
the  so-termed  startling  originality  of  effect  which 
in  theatrical  parlance  brings  an  audience  to  their 
feet  and  makes  them  hoarse  with  approving, 
shouts. 

Disappointed  in  his  hopes,  and  thinking  he 
might  have  made  a  mistake  in  depending  too 
much  on  his  elocutionary  and  poetic  ideas  of  stage 
delivery  and  action,  he  took  a  resurvey  of  the  situ- 
ation, and  compared  his  acting  with  that  of  other 
tragedians  who  were  more  successful  in  securing 
the  sterling  stamp  of  the  profession.  Accepting 
in  due  time  the  idea  so  prevalent  among  profes- 
sional people  that  what  is  popular  must  be  perfect, 
he  remodelled  his  style,  adopting  by  degrees, 
though  it  may  be  without  intending  imitation, 
some  of  the  peculiarly  expressive  traits  of  certain 
distinguished  performers  then  masters  of  the  situ- 
ation in  London. 

In  consequence  of  this  change  of  base,  his  act- 
ing became  more  theatrical  or  stagey.  His  fervor 
and  impulse  were  not  in  the  least  abated,  and, 
still  influenced  by  taste  and  good  judgment — 


Il8    THE  INTERPRETATION  OF  AMBIGUITIES. 

which  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  lose  sight  of — 
his  efforts  were  produced  more  in  conformity  with 
the  fashion  of  the  times,  and  at  the  dictation  of 
the  critics  were  at  last  pronounced  brilliant  mani- 
festations of  theatrical  genius. 

Thus  he  established  a  reputation  of  increased 
pecuniary  worth,  and  finally  became  the  embodi- 
ment of  what  was  termed  the  perfection  of  artistic 
skill  in  his  profession.  From  this  period  of  his 
history  it  was  observable  to  Mr.  Macready's  true 
admirers  that,  though  his  acting  was  marked  by 
some  of  the  best  points  of  his  predecessors  and 
contemporaries  in  respect  to  force  and  vividness, 
yet  it  was  plain  that  the  refining  influence  of  pre- 
cision and  polish  in  minute  details  had  in  some 
sense  deadened  the  native  fire  and  breadth  of 
his  poetic  temperament,  and  thereby  impaired  his 
natural  powers. 

One  peculiar  effect  of  this  new  style  was  that, 
while  conveying  an  impression  of  its  grace  and 
elegance,  it  produced  a  feeling  that  the  actor  was 
anxious  to  give  such  an  illustration  of  the  author's 
meaning  as  would  supply  any  possible  lack  of 
proper  understanding  on  the  part  of  the  auditor, 
such  a  want  of  appreciation  concerning  the  text 
being  clearly  indicated  by  the  actor's  studied  man- 
ner of  striving  to  give  a  correctly  emphasized 
interpretation  of  what  he  might  deem  ambiguous 
or  obscure. 

This  peculiar  idea  of  making  the  way  plain  to 
those  who  are  supposed  to  be  in  the  dark  con- 
cerning the  true  significance  of  an  author's  lite- 


A   BURLESQUE   ON  COMMENTATORS.        II 9 

ral  meaning  is  exemplified  by  editors  of  dramatic 
works,  who  make  expository  notes  to  passages 
so  plain  to  ordinary  intelligence  as  to  render  any 
explanation  superfluous.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  the  habits  of  certain  writers,  who  underscore 
their  words  with  bewildering  uniformity,  no  mat- 
ter how  obvious  their  import  may  be.  A  good 
hit  at  this  extra  help  gratuitously  rendered  to 
inexperienced  readers  and  hearers  is  made  in  a 
travesty  of  the  play  of  Hamlet.  When  the  Prince 
rudely  assaults  Laertes  in  his  sister's  grave  the 
Queen  apologizes  for  her  son's  madness,  and 
concludes  with  the  following  jingle: 

Anon  he's  furious  as  an  angry  Towzer, 
And  then  as  patient  as  a  hungry  mouser. 

Explanatory  of  this  mysterious  matter  there 
follows  a  foot-note  by  the  editor,  who  informs 
the  reader  that,  having  looked  into  the  author- 
ities regarding  the  word  Tawzer,  though  rather 
puzzled  by  the  many  suggestions  so  kindly  offered 
to  unriddle  the  mystery,  he  is  inclined  to  the  opin- 
ion, but  expresses  it  cautiously,  that  by  a  word  so 
strange  and  unfamiliar  in  its  aspect  the  author 
possibly  meant  a  watch-dog. 

I  have  before  referred  to  the  fact  that  in  Mr. 
Macready's  early  life  he  had  depended  more  upon 
the  tones  of  natural  vocality  than  upon  the  artifi- 
cialities of  an  affected  intonation.  But  his  voice 
finally  lost  its  clear  ring  and  other  attractive  qual- 
ities of  tone,  and  became  harsh,  and  even,  at  times, 
repulsive ;  this,  in  addition  to  the  strongly-marked 


120  MACREADY  AS  WERNER. 

peculiarity  of  his  speech,  became  as  much  the  na- 
ture of  the  actor  as  if  it  had  been  born  with  him. 
In  one  performance,  however,  the  tragedian  seemed 
to  become  so  entirely  absorbed  in  the  character 
he  was  representing  that  this  objectionable  feature 
was  not  observable.  I  refer  to  his  impersonation 
of  the  remarkable  character  of  Werner  in  Byron's 
play  of  that  name.  Here  the  vocal  peculiarities 
of  the  actor  seemed  so  entirely  appropriate  that 
one  might  fancy  that  Werner  talked  as  Mr.  Ma- 
cready  did. 

This  poetic  drama  is  strongly  marked  with  do- 
mestic traits,  which  impose  upon  the  spectator  the 
fascinations  of  a  familiar  yet  profound  mystery. 
It  has  no  advantage  of  display  in  scenery,  no  mere 
stage- effects,  no  pageantry  of  the  battlefield  or 
dazzling  presence  of  regal  splendor.  Unaided 
or  unaffected  by  any  such  adjuncts,  the  actor  has 
to  depend  entirely  upon  himself  for  the  materials 
by  which  to  give  color  to  the  emotions  and  pas- 
sions so  ably  portrayed  by  the  author. 

No  man  who  ever  saw  Macready  as  Werner 
could  fail  to  accept  the  performance  as  the  per- 
fection of  natural  acting  untrammelled  by  the  ob- 
trusion of  affected  art.  In  witnessing  the  moody 
mental  tortures  of  the  sore-tried  and  desperate 
nobleman  the  auditor  was  made,  through  a  con- 
scious feeling  of  respect  due  to  an  over-sensitive 
nature,  to  shrink  from  too  close  a  scrutiny  of  the 
scene  before  him,  and,  instead  of  considering  his 
presence  as  a  spectator  a  purchased  privilege,  he 
regarded  himself  almost  as  an  intruder  upon  the 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WERNER.      121 

privacy  of  a  man  who  was  unable  to  withdraw  his 
sorrows  from  the  public  gaze.  Such  an  impres- 
sion, arising  from  the  consummate  skill  of  the 
actor,  transformed  the  auditor  into  an  entranced 
observer  of  the  enactment  of  a  terrible  domestic 
scene,  rather  than  the  public  representation  of  a 
play. 

Under  such  influences,  it  may  be  said,  Macready 
swayed  the  feelings  of  his  audience,  until  from  the 
stage-surroundings  Werner  stood  out  in  natural 
lineaments,  a  human  being  bowed  down  by  an  in- 
supportable affliction  and  claiming  the  respect  and 
sympathy  of  his  fellow- creatures.  How  entirely 
did  the  auditors  become  engrossed  with  the  settled 
misanthropy  of  a  despairing  mind,  the  concen- 
trated bitterness  of  an  outraged  nature  struggling 
against  the  overmastering  force  of  an  apparently 
inexorable  destiny !  When  the  developments  of 
the  plot  bring  his  proud  boy  face  to  face  with  an 
accusing  witness  to  answer  the  fearful  charge  of 
homicide,  the  miseries  of  the  wretched  parent  were 
so  faithfully  portrayed  that  the  spasmodic  twitch- 
ings  of  the  face,  the  heaving  of  the  breast,  and  the 
excited  tremulous  tones  of  fear  and  anxiety  all 
seemed  to  be  the  expressions  of  realized  agony. 
But  who  shall  attempt  to  portray  the  wailing  tones 
of  the  crushed  heart  that  thrilled  through  the 
nerves  of  the  auditor  when  the  bold  and  defiant 
avowal  of  his  child  revealed  him  to  the  horror- 
stricken  father  as  a  cold-blooded  murderer?  No 
tongue  can  fittingly  describe  such  a  scene. 

In  addition  to  the  thorough  discipline  to  which 
11 


122  A   SYMPATHETIC  CARPENTER. 

his  vocal  effects  were  submitted,  Mr.  Macready's 
minutiae  of  details  in  what  is  termed  stage-busi- 
ness were  always  premeditated  and  carefully  and 
repeatedly  practised  before  they  were  trusted  to  a 
public  trial.  The  rehearsals  of  his  plays  (where 
the  companies  were  of  the  standard  order)  af- 
forded to  those  who  could  appreciate  their  artistic 
excellence  a  study  of  the  histrionic  art  unique  and 
invaluable  to  the  profession. 

One  night,  just  before  making  his  entrance  on 
the  first  scene  of  Richelieu,  the  tragedian  stopped 
and  took  hold  of  the  protruding  edge  of  a  scene 
and  began  to  practise  his  stage-cough — in  a  dry, 
husky  way  at  first,  and  gradually  increasing  until 
it  reached  a  suffocating  kind  of  guttural  spasm 
resembling  somewhat  a  fit  of  whooping-cough  in 
a  child.  Just  as  the  climax  of  this  cough  was 
reached  a  stage-carpenter,  who  never  had  been 
present  at  a  rehearsal,  thinking,  as  he  said,  that 
Mr.  Macready  was  choking,  unexpectedly  ex- 
claimed, "  Mr.  Macready,  sir !  sir !  "  accompanying 
the  words  with  two  or  three  sharp  slaps  on  the 
back.  With  a  scream  the  tragedian,  now  choking 
with  anger,  turned  on  the  man,  but  before  he  could 
speak  or  the  carpenter  could  offer  an  explanation 
the  call-boy,  pulling  the  sleeve  of  the  cardinal's 
dress,  cried  out,  "Stage  waiting,  Mr.  Macready — 
stage  waiting,  sir."  Then,  slowly  putting  one 
hand  behind  his  back  and  the  other  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  monk  Joseph,  Richelieu  began  his 
measured  walk  toward  the  stage-entrance,  utter- 
ing all  the  while,  in  half-coughing  and  half-growl- 


A   KINGLY  REPUBLICAN.  123 

ing  tones,  denunciations  on  the  carpenter  in  return 
for  the  compliment  he  had  paid  him  in  taking  his 
professional  cough  for  a  real  one.  Some  time,  of 
course,  elapsed  before  he  reached  the  side-door. 
The  audience  were  waiting,  but  the  artist  could 
not  hurry  on  that  account;  he  coughed  and  tot- 
tered so  well,  however,  when  he  got  on  the  stage, 
that  more  than  usual  applause  greeted  his  appear- 
ance. 

Mr.  Macready  was  fond  of  telling  the  following 
story  as  his  experience  of  American  ifldependence, 
exemplified  in  a  Western  actor  of  the  self-satisfied 
kind.  "  In  the  last  act  of  Hamlet"  said  he,  "  I  was 
very  anxious  to  have  the  King,  who  was  rather  of 
a  democratic  turn  of  mind,  to  fall,  when  I  stabbed 
him,  over  the  steps  of  the  throne  and  on  the  right- 
hand  side,  with  his  feet  to  the  left,  in  order  that 
when  I  was  to  fall  I  should  have  the  centre  of  the 
stage  to  myself  as  befitting  the  principal  person- 
age of  the  tragedy.  No  objection  was  made  to 
this  request  on  the  part  of  the  actor,  but  at  night, 
to  my  great  surprise,  he  wheeled  directly  round 
after  receiving  the  sword-thrust  and  deliberately 
fell  in  the  middle  of  the  scene,  just  on  the  spot 
where  I  was  in  the  habit  of  dying.  Well,  as  a 
dead  man  cannot  move  himself,  and  as  there  was 
no  time  for  others  to  do  it,  the  King's  body  re- 
mained in  possession  of  my  place,  and  I  was 
forced  to  find  another  situation,  which  I  did,  and 
finished  the  scene  in  the  best  way  I  could.  When 
I  expostulated  with  His  Majesty  for  the  liberty  he 
had  taken,  he  coolly  replied,  '  Mr.  Macready,  we 


124  MISS  ELIZA   RIDDLE. 

Western  people  know  nothing  about  kings,  ex- 
cept that  they  have  an  odd  trick  of  doing  as  they 
please ;  therefore  I  thought,  as  I  was  a  king,  I  had 

a  right  to  die  wherever  I  pleased;  and  so, 

sir,  I  fell  back  upon  my  kingly  rights,  from  which, 
you  perceive,  sir,  there  is  no  appeal.'  I  retired," 
said  Mr.  Macready,  "to  my  dressing-room  to  have 
a  hearty  laugh  over  what  I  had  felt  more  like  cry- 
ing over  a  moment  before." 

AN  UNREHEARSED   STAGE-EFFECT. 

While  yet  a  mere  youth  I  was  acting  in  the  old 
city  of  Lancaster,  Pennsylvania,  during  the  vaca- 
tion of  the  regular  theatrical  season,  with  a  por- 
tion of  the  company  attached  to  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre,  Philadelphia.  Miss  Eliza  Riddle,  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  actresses  of 
the  American  stage,  and  a  great  favorite  in  Phila- 
delphia, was  the  leading  lady  of  the  "  star  combi- 
nation," as  it  is  generally  termed  in  provincial 
towns. 

Miss  Riddle,  was  afterward  a  popular  star-ac- 
tress in  the  principal  theatres  of  the  South  and 
West.  She  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Joseph  M. 
Field,  the  eccentric  comedian  and  the  witty  editor 
of  one  of  the  popular  papers  of  St.  Louis.  Their 
only*  child  is  our  talented  young  countrywoman, 
Miss  Kate  Field. 

That  my  readers  may  realize  the  situation  of 
affairs  in  connection  with  the  incident  to  be  re- 
lated, I  will  state  that  the  building  in  which  we 
were  acting  was  originally  a  barn,  and  had  been 


"THE   TOMB    OF   THE    CAPULETS."  125 

fitted  up,  as  the  playbills  say,  "  regardless  of  ex- 
pense "  to  answer  the  purposes  of  a  theatre.  The 
rear  stone  wall,  which  formed  the  back  part  of  the 
stage,  still  retained  the  large  double  folding  doors 
of  the  barn,  while  the  yard  at  the  rear,  with  its 
sheds,  was  used  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
proprietor's  cows.  The  double  doors  were  made 
available  for  scenic  purposes  when  shut,  having 
a  rude  landscape  scene  painted  on  the  boards,  and 
when  they  were  open  they  afforded  the  means  of 
increasing  the  size  of  the  stage,  which  was  done 
by  laying 'down  a  temporary  floor  on  the  outside 
directly  opposite  the  opening,  a  wooden  frame- 
work, covered  with  painted  canvas,  forming  the 
sides,  back,  and  top  of  the  extension.  The  play 
was  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Miss  Riddle  performing 
the  part  of  Juliet,  and  I  that  of  Romeo. 

The  extra  staging  described  had  been  set  up 
in  the  barnyard  and  enclosed  by  the  canvas  walls, 
and  thus  room  was  obtained  for  the  "Tomb  of 
the  Capulets."  The  front  part  of  the  tomb  was 
formed  of  a  set  piece,  so  called,  painted  to  rep- 
resent the  marble  of  the  sepulchre,  in  which  were 
hung  the  doors  forming  its  entrance,  and  at  the 
top  was  painted  in  large  letters  "The  Tomb  of 
the  Capulets."  Within  the  tomb,  and  against  the 
canvas  which  formed  the  rear  wall,  was  a  small 
wooden  platform,  on  which  was  placed  a  compact 
mass  of  hay,  shaped  like  a  pallet  and  nicely  cov- 
ered with  black  muslin,  and  on  this  hay-stuffed 
couch  was  to  rest  the  body  of  the  dead  or  drug- 
surfeited  Lady  Juliet. 


126  THE  FORE  DONE   JULIET.  '''* 

In  view  of  the  gloomy  surroundings  of  the 
tomb,  and  particularly  of  its  close  proximity  to 
the  barnyard,  it  would  not  be  considered,  under 
any  circumstances,  a  pleasant  resting-place  for  a 
young  lady,  especially  of  an  imaginative  turn  of 
mind.  Before  the  rising  of  the  curtain  on  the 
fifth  act,  however,  I  had  carefully  inspected  the 
premises  and  looked  after  the  proper  disposal  of 
Juliet  in  the  tomb,  so  that  when  the  doors  were 
to  be  thrown  open  in  sight  of  the  audience  there 
might  be  no  obstacle  to  the  full  view  of  the  sepul- 
chred heroine. 

Everything  was  pronounced  in  a  state  of  read- 
iness, and,  receiving  from  Miss  Riddle  an  earnest 
request  to  hurry  on  the  scene  which  precedes  the 
catastrophe  of  the  tragedy,  I  left  her,  her  last 
words  being,  "  Oh  do  hurry,  Mr.  Murdoch !  I'm 
so  dreadfully  afraid  of  rats !" 

The  curtain  rose.  Romeo  received  the  news 
of  the  death  of  his  Juliet,  in  despair  provided  the 
fatal  poison,  and  rushed  to  the  graveyard.  Here 
he  met  and  despatched  his  rival,  the  county  Paris, 
burst  open  the  doors  of  the  tomb,  and  there,  in 
the  dim,  mysterious  light,  lay  Juliet.  The  frantic 
lover  rushed  to  her  side,  exclaiming — 

Oh   my  love  !  my  wife  ! 

Death,  that  hath  sucked  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty : 
Thou  art  not  conquered  ;  beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips  and  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there. 


A   SUDDEN  RESURRECTION.  127 

Ah,  dear  Juliet, 
Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair? 

Here,  observing  strange  twitchings  in  the  face 
and  hands  of  the  lady,  I  stooped  during  my  last 
line  to  ask  her  in  a  stage-whisper  what  was  the 
matter;  to  which  she  sobbingly  replied,  "Oh, 
take  me  out  of  this !  oh  take  me  out  of  this,  or 
I  shall  die!" 

Feeling  assured  of  the  necessity  of  the  case, 
and  wishing  to  bring  the  scene  to  a  close,  I  seized 
upon  the  poison  and  exclaimed — 

Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavory  guide ! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks,  thy  seasick  weary  bark  ! 

Smothered  sobbings  and  suppressed  mutterings 
of  "Oh,  Mr.  Murdoch,  take  me  out!  you  must 
take  me  out !"  came  from  the  couch.  Now  fully 
alarmed,  I  swallowed  the  poison,  exclaiming — 

Here's  to  my  love  ! 

Then,  throwing  away  the  vial  and  with  my 
back  to  the  tomb,  I  struck  an  attitude,  as  usual, 
and  waited  for  the  expected  applause,  when  I  was 
startled  by  a  piercing  shriek,  and,  turning,  I  be- 
held my  lady-love  sitting  up  wringing  her  hands 
and  fearfully  alive.  I  rushed  forward,  seized  and 
bore  her  to  the  footlights,  and  was  received  with 
shouts  of  applause.  No  one  had  noticed  the  by- 
play of  the  tomb,  nor  did  the  dying  scene  lose 
any  of  its  effects,  for  Juliet  was  excited  and  hys- 


128       THE  POINTS  OF  THE  STORY. 

terical  and  Romeo  in  a  state  of  frantic  bewilder- 
ment. The  curtain  fell  amid  every  manifestation 
of  delight  on  the  part  of  the  audience. 

And  now  for  the  scene  behind  the  curtain. 
All  the  dead-alive  Juliet  could  gasp  out  was, 
"Oh,  oh,  the  bed!  the  bed!  Oh,  oh,  the  rats! 
the  rats !'  I  ran  up  the  stage,  tore  open  the  pal- 
let, and  there — oh,  horrors  ! — sticking  through  the 
canvas  walls  of  the  tomb,  were  the  horns  and 
head  of  a  cow.  Though  the  intruder  had  smelt 
no  rats,  she  had  in  some  mysterious  way  scented 
the  fodder,  and  after  pushing  her  nose  through  an 
unfortunate  rent  in  the  canvas  proceeded  to  make 
her  supper  off  the  hay  which  formed  the  couch  of 
the  terrified  Juliet. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

EDMUND  KEAN  AND   HIS   CRITICS.— HIS  SON 
CHARLES  AN  IMITATOR. 

T^DMUND  KEAN,  as  a  country  actor  fear- 
••— *  less  of  criticism,  regarded  the  stage  merely 
as  a  platform  upon  which  to  exhibit  the  powers 
of  an  impetuous  nature  that  required  fitting  op- 
portunity of  audible  expression  to  give  vent  to 
its  turbulent  emotions,  which,  unuttered,  prey 
upon  themselves.  Scorning  all  restrictive  rules 
or  professional  formulas  except  those  which  he 
found  within  his  own  practical  experiences,  he 
rather  dashed  at  than  studied  his  profession. 
Applauded  and  flattered  at  the  onset  by  rustic  and 
unlettered  audiences,  whose  judgment  came  more 
from  their  feelings  than  their  knowledge,  he  found 
himself,  without  premeditation,  in  heartfelt  sym- 
pathy with  his  subject  and  his  audience.  Thus 
developed  and  disciplined,  his  highly -wrought 
forms  of  expression  became  a  second  nature,  till, 
under  the  lash  and  spur  of  irresistible  passion,  he 
finally  believed  himself  to  be  the  character  he 
nightly  assumed. 

In  view  of  such  a  professional  experience  we 
are  prepared  to  accept  the  advent  of  Kean  upon 
the  English  stage  as  a  triumph  of  natural  power 

I  129 


130          "THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  EARNEST." 

accompanied  by  a  preparatory  discipline — not 
founded,  however,  upon  the  refinements  and  ele- 
gances of  art  or  influenced  by  the  merely  formal 
dictation  of  a  prevailing  school. 

As  the  strongly-marked  character  of  the  style 
of  David  Garrick  supplied  what  we  may  term  a 
background  of  contrast  to  that  of  John  Philip 
Kemble,  so  did  Kemble's  stately  mannerism  of 
voice  and  bearing  furnish  "a  like  foil  to  set  it 
off"  for  that  of  Kean. 

Kean  flashed  upon  the  English  stage,  it  might 
be  said,  like  a  meteor.  The  patrons  of  the  drama 
had  become  apathetic  in  their  feelings,  while  their 
tastes  were  toned  down  to  the  sombre  coloring 
of  sobriety  and  dignity  which  was  the  prevailing 
style,  at  least  among  the  gentlemen  of  the  stage. 
The  sudden  and  unheralded  introduction  of  an 
intensely  vital  element  aroused  their  perceptions 
and  quickened  their  slumbering  dramatic  interest. 

It  is  said  that  when  Kean  appeared  in  London, 
Kemble  (who  was  present  at  his  first  performance 
of  Shylock),  in  answer  to  a  query  regarding  his 
opinion  of  the  new  actor,  replied,  "  The  little  man 
is  terribly  in  earnest."  This  rousing  earnestness 
was  the  keynote  to  the  little  man's  success,  for 
he  made  the  audience  as  much  in  earnest  as  he 
was  himself. 

Without  attempting  to  trace  any  likeness  be- 
tween the  entirely  opposite  characters  of  the  poet 
Byron  and  the  actor  Kean,  we  may  venture  to 
suggest  a  resemblance  apparent  in  certain  traits 
of  their  respective  styles  of  dealing  with  language 


LEAR'S  BEWILDERED   FRENZY.  131 

— the  one  in  the  written,  the  other  in  its  spoken, 
form.  It  may  be  observed,  by  all  who  notice  the 
modes  by  which  intensified  passion  expresses 
itself  in  real  life,  that  when  the  feelings  are 
wrought  up  to  a  state  of  frenzy  mere  words  lose 
their  power,  and  cries,  shrieks,  and  screams  usurp 
their  place,  or  when  shocked  by  sudden  and  stu- 
pefying horror  words  are  swallowed  up  and  pas- 
sion is  choked  down  into  silence.  Shakespeare 
furnishes  us  with  illustrations  in  the  characters 
of  Lear  and  Macduff.  When  the  old  and  outraged 
king  awakes  to  a  realizing  sense  of  the  cruel  and 
unnatural  treatment  of  his  daughters,  the  hot  lava 
of  wrath  struggling  for  vent  in  his  exasperated 
breast,  he  exclaims  in  bewildered  frenzy — 

You  heavens  give  me  that  patience,  patience  I  need  ! 

You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 

As  full  of  grief  as  age ;  wretched  in  both  ! 

If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 

Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 

To  bear  it  tamely ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger, 

And  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops, 

Stain  my  man's  cheeks  1 — No,  you  unnatural  hags, 

I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both, 

That  all  the  world  shall —    I  will  do  such  things, — 

What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 

The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think  I'll  weep ;  /^&-^- 

No,  I'll  not  weep:  f(  UNI  VEli 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping;  but  this  heart       ^^.Cd/    c 

Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws, 

Or  ere  I'll  weep :  O  fool,  I  shall  go  mad  !" 

Here  it  will  be  perceived  that  connected  ex- 
pression fails,  while  the  tempest  rages  on  in  wild 


132  MACDUFF'S  PETRIFIED    GRIEF. 

^^~ 

and  whirling  words.  And  on  the  other  hand, 
Macduff  in  receiving  the  news  of  the  murder  of 
his  wife  and  children,  stands  as  if  petrified  in  mute 
despair.  Malcolm,  filled  with  awe  at  the  speech- 
less misery  of  his  friend,  strives  to  break  the 
fetters  of  his  tongue  and  rouse  him  to  action. 
Striking  him  on  the  shoulder  with  sudden  ener- 
gy, he  exclaims — 

What,  man  !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows  ; 
Give  sorrow  words :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'erfraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

— — --"~~ 

Byron  in  Childe  Harold  gives  us  an  exempli- 
fication of  a  different  state  of  the  mind,  though 
of  a  kindred  nature.  Subdued  at  first,  the  poet's 
passionate  emotion  suddenly  breaks  from  the  re- 
straint which  had  confined  it,  and  finally  threatens, 
as  Shakespeare  has  said,  to  make  the  "  heart  too 
great  for  what  contains  it."  Gathering  together 
all  the  elements  of  passion,  the  poet  hurls  forth 
in  a  flood  of  vehement  utterance  the  feelings  which 
smoulder  in  his  breast,  "wreaking  his  thoughts 
upon  expression."  After  describing  a  storm  on 
Lake  Leman  and  the  adjacent  mountains,  he 
likens  the  flashing  bolts  and  scorching  shafts  of 
the  elemental  strife  to  the  blighting  rage  of  love 
and  hate  in  the  human  soul,  and  goes  on  to  ex- 
press the  intensified  depths  of  his  own  passion- 
seared  nature.  But  the  poet  fails  to  paint  the 
state  of  the  soul  for  lack  of  fitting  words,  while 
moody  silence  triumphs  over  the  mental  struggle : 


TAYLOR    ON  EDMUND   KEAN.  133 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye  ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests,  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now,         / 
That  which  is  most  within  me,  could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe,  into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  lightning,  I  would  speak ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

By  the  power  expressed  in  these  lines  I  am 
strongly  reminded  of  the  resemblance — to  which 
I  have  before  referred — between  the  poet  Byron 
and  the  actor  Kean. 

John  Taylor  says :  "  Having  given  some  ac- 
count of  the  theatrical  performers  who  have  fallen 
within  my  notice,  beginning  with  Mr.  Garrick,  it 
might  reasonably  be  thought  strange  if  I  said 
nothing  of  so  very  conspicuous  a  character  in 
the  theatrical  world  as  Mr.  Kean.  The  truth  is, 
that  I  never  could  perceive  in  him  those  high  pro- 
fessional merits  which  the  public  have  not  only 
evidently,  but  most  fervently,  acknowledged.  I 
was  unwilling  to  oppose  my  humble  opinion  to 
the  public  judgment,  and,  as  a  public  critic,  I 
12 


134  TAYLOR  AND  KEAN  MEET. 

deemed  it  cruelty  to  attack  a  man  in  his  profes- 
sion, even  if  I  could  possibly  have  persuaded 
myself  that  my  weak  censure  might  do  him  an 
injury.  Such  has  been  always  my  rule  in  writing 
theatrical  critiques,  either  on  performers  or  dra- 
matic authors. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Kean  on  his  first  performance  in 
London.  The  part  was  Shylock,  and  it  appeared 
to  me  to  be  a  favorable  specimen  of  what  might 
be  expected  from  a  provincial  performer,  but  I 
could  not  see  any  of  those  striking  merits  which 
have  since  appeared  to  the  public;  and,  finding 
in  his  progress  that  his  fame  increased  without 
any  apparent  improvement  in  my  humble  judg- 
ment, and,  as  I  before  observed,  reluctant  to  op- 
pose public  opinion,  I  avoided,  as  much  as  was 
consistent  with  the  duty  of  a  public  journalist,  to 
notice  his  performances.  But  I  hope  I  shall  not 
be  accused  of  vanity  in  saying  that  I  found  my 
silence  in  public  and  my  observations  in  private 
had  brought  upon  me  the  imputation  of  being  an 
enemy  to  Mr.  Kean.  I  should  be  shocked  indeed 
if  I  felt  conscious  that  I  deserved  such  an  impu- 
tation. As  a  proof,  however,  that  such  a  suspi- 
cion had  gained  ground,  I  dined  once  with  my  old 
acquaintance,  Mr.  Pascoe  Grenfell,  M.  P.,  at  his 
house  in  Spring  Gardens,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kean  were  of  the  party;  and  I  heard  afterward 
that  Mrs.  Kean — a  lady  by  no  means  unwilling  to 
communicate  her  sentiments — had  expressed  her 
surprise,  either  to  Mr.  Grenfell  himself  or  to  one 
of  the  company,  that  Mr.  Taylor  should  be  in- 


GARRICK  SUPERIOR    TO  KEAN.          135 

vited  to  the  same  table  with  Mr.  Kean.  I  hap- 
pened to  sit  next  to  Mr.  Kean  at  dinner,  and  paid 
him  particular  attention  to  obviate  or  soften  any 
unpleasant  feeling  on  his  part,  and  endeavored 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  him  on  dramatic 
subjects ;  but,  though  he  conducted  himself  with 
politeness,  he  seemed  of  a  reserved  and  taciturn 
habit,  yet  without  the  least  indication  that  he 
thought  himself  near  a  person  inimical  to  his 
fame.  I  have  since  seen  Mr.  Kean  in  most  if 
not  all  of  his  theatrical  exhibitions,  and  I  can 
even  solemnly  declare  that  I  went  for  the  purpose 
of  enlightening  my  mind  by  the  public  judgment ; 
but,  unfortunately,  my  opinion  remained  precisely 
the  same.  I  say  'unfortunately,'  for  otherwise  I 
should  have  received  from  his  acting  the  same 
pleasure  which  the  public  have  enjoyed. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  thought  that  I  am  biassed 
by  my  recollection  of  Garrick,  whom  I  saw  in 
many  of  his  performances  when  I  was  twenty 
and  twenty-one  years  of  age.  If  so,  I  cannot 
but  admit  the  charge,  since  I  am  supported  by 
the  testimony  of  the  best  authors  and  critics  of 
his  time,  as  well  as  by  the  opinion  of  all  his  theat- 
rical contemporaries.  Far  from  feeling  a  prejudice 
against  Mr.  Kean,  I  should  have  been  happy  in 
joining  with  the  millions  in  admiration  of  his  abil- 
ities, as  he  is  the  grandson  of  an  old  and  long- 
esteemed  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  George  Saville 
Carey.  And  here  let  me  stop  to  pay  a  tribute  of 
respect  to  the  memory  of  a  very  worthy  man,  and 
a  man  of  real  genius. 


136  HENRY  AND    GEORGE  CAREY. 

"George  Saville  Carey  was  the  son  of  Henry 
Carey,  a  very  popular  dramatic  author,  but  more 
particularly  known  for  his  fertility  in  song-writing. 
His  '  Sally  of  our  Alley '  has  been  long  a  favorite 
ballad ;  he  was  the  author  of  Chrononhotontholo- 
gos  and  other  dramas  popular  at  the  time,  and  is 
mentioned  in  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison  as  one 
of  Addison's  most  intimate  friends.  His  son,  my 
old  friend,  labored  to  prove  that  his  father  was 
the  author  of  the  words  and  music  of  what  has 
been  styled  the  national  anthem,  '  God  save  great 
George  our  King ! ' 

"  Henry  Carey  was  a  musician  as  well  as  a 
dramatic  writer,  but  being,  like  too  many  of  the 
literary  fraternity,  improvident  and  careless  of 
the  future,  he  was  reduced  to  despair,  and  hang- 
ed himself  on  the  banister  of  the  house  where 
he  resided.  A  single  halfpenny  was  all  that  was 
found  in  his  pocket,  and  it  came  into  the  posses- 
sion of  my  father's  old  friend,  Mr.  Brooke,  whom 
I  have  before  mentioned,  and  who  kept  it  as  a 
mournful  relic  of  departed  friendship. 

"  George  Saville  Carey,  I  believe,  had  no  recol- 
lection of  his  unfortunate  father,  though  he 
cherished  his  memory  and  was  well  acquainted 
with  his  works.  The  son,  it  is  said,  was  originally 
apprenticed  to  a  printer,  but  he  soon  adopted  the 
theatrical  profession,  with,  however,  so  little  suc- 
cess that  he  became  a  sort  of  public  orator  and 
mimic,  in  which  capacity  I  became  acquainted  with 
him  early  in  my  life.  He  was  chiefly  a  mimic  of 
the  theatrical  performers  of  that  time,  but  intro- 


TAYLOR    ON  KEAN  AS  AN  ACTOR.          137 

duced  many  odd  characters  in  his  miscellaneous 
compositions,  which  he  publicly  recited.  I  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  him  deliver  his  recitations  at 
Marylebone  Gardens,  now  covered  with  elegant 
mansions.  Like  his  father,  he  was  a  musical  per- 
former, and  accompanied  himself  with  skill  and 
taste  on  the  guitar. 

"As  the  nature  of  his  profession  induced  him  to 
lead  an  itinerant  life,  I  never  knew  when  or  where 
he  died,  but  have  reason  to  fear  not  in  prosperous 
circumstances.  He  wrote  many  songs  and  other 
poetical  productions,  but  as  he  kept  them  in  re- 
serve as  instruments  of  his  calling,  I  only  know 
them  as  he  recited  them  in  public  or  to  me  when 
he  called  on  me.  I  only  knew  of  his  death  when 
his  daughter — whom  I  understood  to  be  the 
mother  of  Mr.  Kean — called  on  me  to  sell  some 
musical  productions  of  her  deceased  father;  and 
on  more  than  one  occasion  that  child  accompanied 
her  who  was  destined  to  become  the  most  popular 
and  attractive  actor  of  his  day. 

"  I  have  introduced  these  circumstances  merely 
to  show  that  I  had  more  reason  to  be  the  friend 
of  Mr.  Kean  than  to  be  adverse  to  his  talents. 

"  I  will  venture  to  say  a  few  words  respecting 
Mr.  Kean  as  an  actor.  He  had  the  sagacity  to 
perceive  that  there  were  many  points  and  passages 
in  dramatic  characters  which  performers  in  general 
passed  negligently  over  in  their  endeavors  to  sup- 
port the  whole  of  the  part,  but  which  admitted  of 
strong  expression.  These  points  and  passages 
Mr.  Kean  seized  upon,  and  brought  forth  some- 
12* 


KEAN  AS  A   "SPIRIT." 

times  with  archness,  and  often  with  a  fiery  emotion 
which  made  a  strong  impression  on  the  audience, 
and  essentially  contributed  to  his  extraordinary 
success.  That  he  performs  with  great  energy 
must  be  readily  admitted,  and  it  is  to  be-  hoped 
that  he  will  inoculate  some  of  his  professional 
brethren  with  the  same  fervor. 

"  Here  I  conclude  my  observations  on  Mr. 
Kean,  heartily  rejoicing  at  his  prosperity,  as  he 
is  the  grandson  of  my  old  friend,  and  as  he  is  well 
known  to  be  a  liberal-minded  man,  and  ready  to 
manifest  a  generous  zeal  to  assist  any  of  the  the- 
atrical community  who  fall  into  distress. 

"  It  may  be  mentioned  among  the  extraordinary 
vicissitudes  of  life  that  when  the  late  Mr.  John 
Kemble,  in  his  almost  idolatrous  admiration  of 
Shakespeare,  during  his  management  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  performed  Macbeth,  he  introduced 
the  children,  according  to  a  passage  in  the  play, 

as  spirits — 

Black  spirits  and  white, 
Red  spirits  and  gray, 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle, 
You  that  mingle  may. 

Mr.  Kean  figured  as  one  of  those  spirits,  and  was 
afterward  destined  to  perform  the  royal  usurper 
himself  on  those  very  boards  and  to  draw  pop- 
ularity from  that  other  great  tragedian.  Mr. 
Kemble  did  not  consider  that  his  own  grave  taste 
might  on  such  an  occasion  differ  from  that  of  the 
majority  of  the  audience,  to  whom  the  comic 
capering  of  the  infantile  band  had  a  most  ludi- 


DR.    DO  RAN  ON  EDMUND   KEAN.  139 

crous    appearance,   as,    indeed,   happened    to   be 
the  case. 

"At  this  time,  Kean,  being  weak  in  his  legs, 
was  obliged  to  have  them  supported  by  iron 
props.  My  friend,  George  Colman  the  Younger, 
having  seen  the  boy  in  this  situation,  and  to  whose 
ready  wit  and  humor  I,  as  well  as  most  of  his 
friends,  have  often  been  a  victim,  said,  '  Oh,  I  re- 
member the  child,  and  I  called  his  legs  Fetter 
Lane  sausages.' ' 

Doran  says:  "In  Sir  Giles  Overreach  all  the 
qualities  of  Kean's  voice  came  out  to  wonderful 
purpose,  especially  in  the  scene  where  Lovel  asks 
him, 

Are  you  not  moved  with  the  sad  imprecations 
And  curses  of  whole  families,  made  wretched 
By  your  sinister  practices  ? 

To  which  Sir  Giles  replies, 

Yes,  as  rocks  are 

When  foamy  billows  split  themselves  against 
Their  flinty  ribs ;  or  as  the  moon  is  moved 
When  wolves,  with  hunger  pined,  howl  at  her  brightness. 

I  seem  still  to  hear  the  words  and  the  voice  as  I 
pen  this  passage — now  composed,  now  grand  as 
the  foamy  billows ;  so  flute-like  on  the  word  moon, 
creating  a  scene  with  the  sound ;  and  anon  sharp, 
harsh,  fierce  in  the  last  line,  with  a  look  upward 
from  those  matchless  eyes  that  rendered  the  troop 
visible,  and  their  howl  perceptible  to  the  ear^— the 
whole  serenity  of  the  man  and*  the  solidity  of  his 
temper  being  illustrated  less  by  the  assurance 


140  THE  PRESS  SUBSIDIZED. 

in  the  succeeding  words  than  by  the  exquisite 
music  in  the  tone  with  which  he  uttered  the  word 
brightness" 

Mr.  Frederick  Reynolds,  the  distinguished  dra- 
matic author,  who  was  well  informed  on  all  theat- 
rical matters,  affords  us  the  following  hint  regard- 
ing the  pressure  which  was  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  press  in  the  case  of  a  star  who  was  to  be  a 
success  in  the  interests  of  the  Drury  Lane  man- 
agement. Mr.  Reynolds  wrote  in  the  capacity 
of  an  adherent  of  the  opposite  faction,  Covent 
Garden : 

"During  the  year  1814  there  appeared  in  the 
theatrical  hemisphere  two  stars  of  the  first  mag- 
nitude. '  Stars  '  do  I  call  them  ?  Suns,  moons, 
comets,  displaying  coruscations,  scintillations,  illu- 
minations, and  halos  hitherto  unseen  and  unknown 
among  the  great  heavenly  bodies.  Their  names 
were  Kean  and  O'Neill.  The  Shylock,  Richard, 
and  Hamlet  of  the  former  were  all  pronounced  to 
be  equally  celestial;  and  one  of  the  most  grave 
idolaters  of  the  latter  demanded  in  print  why  the 
actor  who  played  Romeo  to  the  divine  Juliet  did 
not  imbibe  a  portion  of  that  angelic  lady's  ethereal 
fluid. 

"  During  the  height  of  this  mania  one  of  our 
young  Westminster  Hall  orators,  dining  with 
Kean  and  Lord  ,  told  this  histrionic  phe- 
nomenon, among  other  compliments  of  a  similar 
stamp,  that  he  had  never  seen  acting  until  the 
preceding  evening. 

"  '  Indeed  ! '  said  Kean.     '  Why,  you  must  have 


A    DISCOMFITED    TOADY.  141 

seen  others,  sir,  I  should  conceive,  in  Richard  the 
Third?' 

"'I  have,'  replied  the  barrister — 'both  Cooke 
and  Kemble;  but  they  must  excuse*  me,  Mr. 
Kean,  if  I  should  turn  from  them  and  frankly 
say  to  you,  with  Hamlet,  "  Here's  metal  more 
attractive." ' 

"  Kean  felt  highly  flattered,  and  begged  to  have 
the  honor  of  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  with  his 
great  legal  admirer.  The  conversation  then  turn- 
ing on  a  curious  lawsuit  that  had  been  decided 
during  the  last  western  circuit  (and  which  circuit 
our  barrister  at  that  time  went),  Kean,  after  a 
pause,  inquired  whether  he  had  ever  visited  the 
Exeter  Theatre. 

"  '  Very  rarely  indeed,'  was  the  reply  ;  '  though, 
by  the  by,  now  I  recollect  during  the  last  assizes 
I  dropped  in  toward  the  conclusion  of  Richard  the 
Third.  Richmond  was  in  the  hands  of  a  very 
promising  young  actor,  but  such  a  Richard ! — such 
a  harsh,  croaking  barn -brawler!  I  forget  his 
name,  but — ' 

" '  I'll  tell  it  you,'  interrupted  the  Drury  Lane 
hero,  rising  and  tapping  the  great  lawyer  on  the 
shoulder — '  I'll  tell  it  you  :  Kean  ! ' 

"  This  naturally  created  a  loud  laugh,  in  which, 
to  his  credit,  Kean  heartily  joined,  while  the  arch- 
critic  turned  it  off  by  saying,  '  How  much  and  how 
rapidly  you  have  improved  ! ' 

"  During  my  long  theatrical  experience  I  have 
always  observed  that  if  the  theatre  be  badly  at- 
tended the  play  is  deemed  bad,  the  actors  bad, 


142  A   PHENOMENON  DISCOVERED. 

and  the  managers  bad :  '  all  is  out  of  joint/  The 
house  being  only  half  filled  on  the  night  of  Kean's 
first  appearance  in  Shylock,  though  some  few 
present  might  have  thought  he  gave,  for  a  young 
man,  rather  a  promising  delineation  of  the  charac- 
ter, it  was  certainly  not  considered  by  the  majority 
of  spectators  by  any  means  a  very  successful 
effort.  However,  on  the  following  morning,  being 
supported  by  that  great  engine  the  press  (which, 
combined,  could  prove  me  at  this  present  moment 
to  be  both  young  and  handsome),  up  he  mounted 
to  celestial  heights ;  and  though  so  hoarse  on  the 
night  of  his  second  appearance  that  his  voice 
could  scarcely  be  heard  beyond  the  orchestra,  he 
made  a  hit  in  the  battle  (or  rather  boxing- match) 
with  Richmond  which  secured  to  the  old  tragedy 
of  Richard  the  Third  at  least  sixty  repetitions  to 
crowded  audiences. 

"  Sculptors,  painters,  and  anatomists  now  imme- 
diately discovered  that,  to  the  grace  of  Antinous 
and  the  dignity  of  Apollo,  Kean  added  the  beauty 
of  Adonis ;  thus  equalling,  if  not  surpassing  in 
exaggeration,  those  hyper-panegyrics  which  sixty 
years  ago  were  even  more  prodigally  lavished  on 
that  most  popular  hero,  Wilkes,  who  at  that  time 
was  so  courted  and  admired  that  many  people 
actually  thought  him  a  handsome  man.  A  laugh- 
able instance  of  these  opinions  is  recorded.  In  a 
conversation  between  two  of  his  followers  at  Guild- 
hall after  two  of  the  most  effective  speeches,  one 
said  to  the  other,  'Tom,  what  a  fine,  handsome 
fellow  Master  Wilkes  is ! ' 


COOPER    ON  KEAN.  143 

"  '  Handsome  ! '  rejoined  Tom.  '  Nay,  not  much 
of  that,  for  he  squints  most  horribly.' 

" '  Squints  ! '  repeated  the  first  speaker,  examin- 
ing Wilkes  with  much  attention.  '  Why,  yes,  to 
be  sure  he  squints  a  little,  but,  confound  you  !  not 
more  than  a  gentleman  ought  to  do/' 

COOPER  AND   KEAN. 

One  day,  in  a  company  of  gentlemen  (at  his 
residence  on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware,  Pennsyl- 
vania), where  the  merits  of  Mr.  Kean's  acting 
were  being  discussed,  the  tragedian  Thomas 
Cooper  suddenly  exclaimed  with  great  animation, 
"  Othello  !  Othello  !  Why,  gentlemen,  Kean  can- 
not come  within  a  mile  of  Othello.  His  snarling, 
snappish  speech  and  his  gusty  flights  of  vehement 
passion  are  all  very  striking  and  effective ;  but, 
gentlemen,  they  are  directly  opposite  to  the  phys- 
ical and  intellectual  forces  of  Othello.  This  is 
clearly  indicated  by  the  conscious  deliberation  and 
dignity  of  the  language  in  which  Shakespeare  has 
presented  the  character.  Mr.  Kean  is  not  suscep- 
tible of  the  full  force  of  the  mighty  and  tumult- 
uous passions  which  stormed  and  seethed  in  the 
heart  of  the  unhappy  Moor,  a  man  whose  life- 
experiences  were  all  in  the  camp  or  on  the  battle- 
field—a mode  of  life  which  teaches  men,  by  the 
force  of  unyielding  discipline,  to  control  their 
passions.  But  let  the  curb  once  snap,  and  the 
dread  gulf  yawns  for  the  victim  of  blind  and  un- 
governable rage.  I  grant  you  Othello  was  impul- 
sive, but  it  was  the  majestic  passion  of  a  roused 


144  'OTHELLO'S  MAJESTIC  PASSION. 

lion  conscious  of  power.  Shakespeare's  words 
tell  us  what  kind  of  passion  inflamed  the  Moor 
and  drove  him  to  desperate  action.  There  was  no 
petulant  snap  in  it  or  snarlish  irritability ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  'as  broad  and  general  as  the 
casing  air,'  not  bright  and  evanescent  as  the 
forked  flash.  Mark  the  tone  of  these  lines,  and 
see  if  you  can  find  any  resemblance  in  them  to 
the  quick  excitements  of  frenzied  vehemence,  or, 
in  short,  anything  to  indicate  littleness  in  mind  or 

person  : 

OTHELLO. 

Oh  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand  lives ! 

One  is  too  poor,  too  weak,  for  my  revenge. 

Now  do  I  see  'tis  true.     Look  here,  lago ; 

All  my  fond  love  thus  I  do  blow  to  heaven ; 

'Tis  gone. 

Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  thy  hollow  cell ! 

Yield  up,  O  love,  thy  crown  and  hearted  throne 

To  tyrannous  hate  !     Swell,  bosom,  with  thy  fraught, 

For  'tis  of  aspics'  tongues  ! 

*  #  #  #  # 

IAGO. 
Patience,  I  say ;  your  mind,  perhaps,  may  change. 

OTHELLO. 

Never,  lago.     Like  to  the  Pontic  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontic  and  the  Hellespont ; 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace, 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 
Swallow  them  up.     Now,  by  yond  marble  heaven, 
In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow 
I  here  engage  my  words. — Othello,  Act  III.  Scene  iii. 


CHARLES  KEAN  AN  IMITATOR.  145 

"John  Kemble  said  of  Kean's  Othello,  'If  the 
justness  of  its  conception  had  been  equal  to  the 
brilliancy  of  its  execution,  it  would  have  been 
perfect.  But  the  whole  thing  is  a  mistake,  the 
fact  being  that  the  Moor  was  a  slow  man.' ' 

I  remember  something  like  the  following, 
where  Shakespeare  is  playing  upon  words: 

Not  quickly  moved  to  strike — 
I  strike  quickly  being  moved. 

This  may  well  be  said  of  Othello  in  an  apt  but 
most  terrible  sense. 

CHARLES  KEAN. 

Charles  Kean  was  an  imitator  of  his  father's 
style  of  acting.  But  to  the  method  which  made 
the  elder  Kean  famous  the  son  added  a  grace 
and  finish  that  gave  repose  and  beauty  to  what 
would  otherwise  have  been  a  mere  copy,  distinct 
in  feature,  but  deficient  in  power.  Of  all  our 
tragedians  of  the  analytic  and  passionate  order, 
approaching  the  mechanical  in  execution,  Charles 
Kean  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  most  finished, 
and  yet  the  most  earnest.  He  gave  point  to  the 
precision  of  art,  while  he  threw  around  his  acting 
an  artistic  refinement  the  result  of  intuition  and 
study.  His  attitudes  were  statuesque,  his  ges- 
tures flowing,  vehement,  and  imposing.  It  might 
be  said  of  his  delineations,  as  Byron  said  of  mod- 
ern Greece, 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

13  K 


146     CHARLES  KEAN  AS  POSTHUMUS. 

When  we  were  very  young  actors  I  remember 
to  have  been  struck  with  the  consummate  art 
with  which  he  could  husband  resources  by  no 
means  powerful,  and  produce  effects  at  once 
startling  and  impressive.  Upon  reflection,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  son  had  caught 
the  traditional  method  of  the  father  by  a  disci- 
plined control  over  the  organs  of  speech  in 
abrupt  and  rapid  utterance,  and  the  power  to 
concentrate  passion  on  special  words  and  to  hurl 
them  forth  with  surprising  force  of  expression, 
which  carried  his  audience  by  storm.  Thus  the 
son  was  enabled  to  hold  up  the  mantle  of  the 
father,  although  he  might  not  be  fitly  said  to 
wear  it. 

The  occasion  which  first  called  my  attention  to 
young  Kean's  peculiar  method  was  his  acting  of 
Posthumus  in  the  play  of  Cymbeline  at  the  Arch 
Street  Theatre  in  Philadelphia  about  1832.  The 
character  is  one  which  requires  quick  perception 
and  acute  sensibility  in  conception  and  portrait- 
ure, the  prominent  traits  being  scepticism  on 
the  one  hand,  and  obstinate  adhesion  to  convic- 
tion on  the  other.  Throughout  the  play  Mr.  Kean 
sustained  his  reputation  for  artistic  excellence. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  performance  above  or 
below  the  requirements  of  the  language  and  sit- 
uation until  the  last  scene  of  the  last  act.  Here 
the  actor  sprang,  as  it  were,  from  his  previous 
still-life  with  the  most  astounding  abruptness  of 
vehement  fury  I  ever  remember  to  have  seen 
upon  the  stage.  It  was  indeed  art,  but  it  was 


IACHIMO  AND  POSTHUMUS.  147 

the  perfection  of  art;  it  was  fiery  passion  and 
melting  tenderness.  In  that  one  outburst  I  fully 
realized  all  that  tradition  had  said  of  the  father's 
power.  Throughout  the  play  the  fire  of  emotion 
had  been  kept  smouldering  under  restraint,  in  or- 
der that  it  might  burst  forth  in  one  dazzling  flash, 
to  die  out  as  suddenly  as  it  had  been  kindled. 
Had  such  an  exhibition  of  force  been  displayed 
in  a  character  requiring  a  repetition  of  such 
effects,  I  question  whether  the  actor  would  not 
have  failed  in  attempting  to  meet  such  a  demand. 
I  will  endeavor  to  bring  before  the  mental  vis- 
ion of  my  readers  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  scene 
to  which  I  have  referred.  In  Act  V.  Scene  v.  of 
Cymbeline,  lachimo,  the  villain  of  the  play,  is  called 
upon  by  Imogen  to  tell  how  he  became  possessed 
of  the  ring  of  her  husband,  who  is  supposed  to  be 
dead.  While  the  repentant  culprit  tells  his  story 
of  cold-blooded  fraud  Posthumus  stands  hidden 
behind  the  groups  of  courtiers  and  attendants, 
listening  to  that  "which  ran  like  poison  through 
his  blood."  lachimo,  finishing  the  recital  of  his 
villainy,  says,  "  Methinks  I  see  him  now."  At 
this  Kean  suddenly  darted  from  his  concealment, 
and  dashing  down  the  stage  struck  his  attitude 
and  exclaimed,  with  a  wild  outburst  of  passion, 
sharp,  harsh,  and  rattling  in  tone — 

Ay,  so  thou  dost, 
Italian  fiend  ! 

As  the  instantaneous  flash   and  bolt  startle  the 
beholder,    so   the   actor   seemed   to   electrify   his 


148  THE  PASSION  OF  POSTHUMUS. 

auditors ;  they  broke  out  into  the  most  deter- 
mined and  prolonged  applause.  Then  came,  in 
tones  of  mingled  rage  and  remorse,  the  choking 
utterance  of  self-reproach : 

Ay  me  !  most  credulous  fool, 
Egregious  murderer,  thief,  anything 
That's  due  to  all  the  villains  past,  in  being, 
To  come ! 

Here  a  sudden  transition  brought  out  the  next 
lines  in  bold,  ringing  notes  of  adjuration : 

Oh  give  me  cord,  or  knife,  or  poison, 
Some  upright  justicer ! 

Now  the  voice  was  changed  to  impetuous  com- 
mand, fierce  and  imperious  denunciation,  high, 
strong,  and  full-toned: 

Thou,  king,  send  out 
For  torturers  ingenious ;  it  is  I 
That  all  the  abhorred  things  o'  the  earth  amend 
By  being  worse  than  they.     I  am  Posthumus, 
That  killed  thy  daughter: — villain-like,  I  lie; 
That  caused  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 
A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do  't. 

This  was  followed  by  a  mingling  of  the  tearful 
tones  of  pity  and  pathetic  admiration  on  the 

words — 

The  temple 
Of  virtue  was  she ;  yea,  and  she  herself. 

Choking  sobs  now  gave  way  to  vehement  utter- 
ance and  piercing  tones  that  seemed  to  penetrate 
the  brain  with  the  wild  notes  of  insanity: 


ELLEN  TREE  AND  MACREADY.  149 

Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 
The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me ;  every  villain 
Be  called  Posthumus  Leonatus. 

Here  the  climax  of  passion  and  fury  culminated, 

while  the  words, 

And 
Be  villainy  less  than  'twas, 

formed  a  forcible  cadence.  Then,  as  if  all  the 
elements  of  indignant  reproach  and  self-condem- 
nation had  spent  themselves,  the  actor  poured 
forth  a  flood  of  tenderness  that  seemed  to  up- 
heave the  very  depths  of  his  soul,  exclaiming  in 
an  ecstasy  of  love  and  grief — 

O  Imogen ! 

My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife  !     O  Imogen, 
Imogen,  Imogen ! 

From  the  wonderful  effect  of  this  lava-like 
flood  of  passion  exhibited  by  the  son  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  that  power  which,  when  a  mere  boy, 
listening  to  the  elder  Kean  in  Othello,  over- 
whelmed me  with  a  kind  of  bewildering  idea  that 
the  little  "  black  man  "  in  the  Moorish  dress  was 
acting  like  a  lunatic  and  ought  to  be  chained  up. 


MISS   ELLEN   TREE   AND   MACREADY. 

Miss  Ellen  Tree  (now  Mrs.  Charles  Kean),  one 
of  the  most  finished  and  elegant  actresses  of  her 
day  and  a  highly-cultivated  lady,  told  me  this  very 
characteristic  story  of  Macready. 

"I  had  been  so  often  subjected  to  discomfort 

13* 


I5O  A    TOO-ENERGETIC  FATHER. 

in  acting  with  Mr.  Macready  on  account  of  his 
abandonment  to  the  spirit  of  natural  acting,  as 
he  termed  it,"  said  Miss  Tree,  "  that  I  remonstrated, 
telling  him  that  when  I  rushed  into  his  protecting 
arms  after  the  brutal  assault  in  the  streets  of 
Rome  by  the  client  of  Appius  Claudius,  he,  as 
my  father  Virginius,  clasped  me  to  his  breast 
with  such  a  '  thump '  that  I  involuntarily  uttered 
a  kind  of  '  ugh !'  which  made  it  appear  to  me 
quite  ridiculous.  And  then  again,  I  said,  he  spoiled 
the  arrangement  of  my  hair,  which  it  always  cost 
me  an  anxious  hour  with  the  hair-dresser  to  put 
in  shape. 

"  He  said,  laughingly,  '  You  should  be  so  glad 
to  find  yourself  in  the  protecting  arms  of  your 
father,  instead  of  the  rude  grasp  of  Appius  Clau- 
dius, that  your  hair  would  be  the  last  thing  to  be 
thought  of.* 

"  *  But,  Mr.  Macready/  I  resumed,  '  there  is  no 
sense  in  such  energetic  acting,  causing  me  to 
utter  involuntary  exclamations  by  jerking  me  so 
strongly  into  your  arms,  and,  above  all,  hugging 
my  head  so  violently  in  your  assumed  frantic  and 
fatherly  outbursts  of  affection  as  to  rumple  my 
curls  into  frightful  disorder.' 

"  His  reply  was :  '  Miss  Tree,  I  cannot  abate 
what  I  consider  a  proper  degree  of  fatherly  ex- 
ultation at  the  safety  of  an  endangered  daughter, 
and  therefore  you  must  submit  to  my  professional 
vehemence,  which  I  cannot  control.' 

" '  Well,'  I  thought,  '  I  will  find  a  way  to  make 
you  feel  like  Mr.  Macready,  though  you  may  not 


AN  AMPLE  APOLOGY.  151 

at  the  same  time  be  required  to  forget  Virginius.' 
And  I  did  so  in  this  way:  I  directed  the  hair- 
dresser, in  pinning  on  my  characteristic  extra 
appendages,  to  let  the  points  of  the  pins  mis- 
chievously, but  not  viciously,  stick  outward  instead 
of  inward ;  and  that  night  the  involuntary  excla- 
mation came  from  Mr.  Macready,  not  from  me. 

"  Rushing  frantically  on  the  stage,  he  cried  out 
as  I  sprang  into  his  arms,  '  My  Virginia !  my  Vir- 
ginia!' But  as  his  hands  clasped  my  head  for 
the  usual  hug  he  uttered  a  quick  cry  of  'Ah!' 
accompanied  with  rather  a  loud  stage-whisper  of 
1  Good  Heavens !  what  have  you  got  in  your 
curls?'  And  this  assured  me  that  the  pins  had 
produced  the  unrehearsed  stage-effect  I  had  in- 
tended. 

"After  that  night,"  added  Miss  Tree,  "I  had 
no  complaint  to  make  of  an  undue  expression 
of  fatherly  energy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Macready." 

AN  AMPLE   APOLOGY. 

Attached  to  the  theatres  of  Baltimore,  Philadel- 
phia, and  Washington  was  an  excellent  actor  and 
a  man  of  good  principles,  although  given  to  occa- 
sional excess  in  drinking;  which,  fortunately  for 
the  welfare  of  society,  is  not  now  regarded  with 
so  much  leniency  as  it  was  forty  years  ago.  It 
was  remarkable  that  when  under  the  influence  of 
liquor  this  gentleman  was  rigidly  exact  and  formal 
in  his  deportment  and  enunciation — so  much  so 
as  to  call  forth  the  expression,  "  As  polite,  as  cor- 
rect, and  as  drunk  as  Charley  Webb,"  when  his 


152          A    "SLIGHTLY-OBLIVIOUS"   ACTOR. 

friends  were  speaking  of  any  one  in  the  "  how- 
came-you-so  ?"  condition. 

Miss  Tree  was  performing  in  the  old  Chestnut 
Street  Theatre.  The  play  for  the  night  was  The 
Gamester,  Miss  Tree  playing  the  devoted  wife, 
Mrs.  Beverly — one  of  those  performances  which 
few  of  her  admirers  can  ever  forget.  Mr.  Webb 
was  playing  Stukely,  the  villain,  and  in  one  of  the 
most  interesting  scenes,  in  consequence  of  having 
taken  too  much  sherry  at  his  dinner,  he  was  some- 
what oblivious  of  the  language  of  the  part.  Miss 
Tree  gave  him,  as  it  is  termed,  "  the  word  "  sev- 
eral times,  which  Webb  took  up  with  so  much 
politeness  and  formality  as  to  render  the  scene 
ridiculous,  considering  the  stern  villainy  of  the 
character  and  his  hateful  relation  to  Mrs.  Bev- 
erly. Finally,  the  audience  became  aware  of  the 
true  state  of  the  case,  and,  as  usual,  in  spite  of 
their  respect  for  the  lady,  began  to  titter,  while 
some  hissed. 

Miss  Tree  was  compelled  at  last  to  walk  up 
the  stage  and  take  a  seat,  with  her  back  to  Mr. 
Webb.  By  this  time  Webb  had  begun  to  feel  how 
matters  stood,  and,  a  thoroughly  polite  man  under 
any  circumstances,  he  was  now  overwhelmingly 
punctilious,  and  with  assumed  sobriety  of  tone, 
though  hesitating  in  articulation  and  rather  un- 
steady in  his  walk,  he  approached  the  footlights 
with  a  low  bow  and  said:  "Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  am  anxious  to  remove  from  your  minds 
an  evident  misunderstanding  concerning  the  true 
situation  of  affairs  existing  on  this  stage.  I  see 


A   SUPERFLUOUS  ASSURANCE.  153 

— indeed  I  feel — I  may  say  I  very  sensibly  real- 
ize— the  fact  that  you  perceive  that  somebody 
here  is  intoxi-intoxica- ;  that  is,  in  plainer  words, 
drunk!  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  allow  me 
to  say  that  justice  compels  me  to  assure  you,  for 
fear  your  impressions  should  lead  you  to  an  erro- 
neous conclusion — to  assure  you,  I  say,  that  who- 
ever is  guilty  of  the  unpardonable  impropriety  I 
have  alluded  to,  on  the  honor  of  a  gentleman 
believe  me  the  offending  party  is  not — Miss 
Ellen  Tree!" 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

SHAKESPEARE  AND   HIS   CRITICS. 


(WITH  EXTRACTS  FROM  MAURICE  MORGAN'S  ESSAY.) 

\\  7 HAT  we  may  comprehend  through  our  feel- 
*  V  ings  rather  than  our  understandings  enters 
largely  into  the  composition  of  Shakespeare's  cha- 
racters, their  motives,  and  their  actions.  It  is  only 
through  close  observation  and  familiar  intercourse 
with  his  creations  that  we  may  discover  the  secret 
source  of  their  production,  but  we  readily  sympa- 
thize with  them,  and  recognize  their  features  as 
perfectly  as  we  do  those  of  our  friends  and  kin- 
dred. The  language  of  the  heart  explains  the 
working  of  the  brain,  and  it  may  be  said  that  we 
perceive  the  true  Shakespearian  meaning  through 
the  eye  of  the  soul  before  we  see  it  through  the 
eye  of  the  mind.  The  creations  of  Shakespeare 
are  so  entirely  in  agreement  with  those  of  Nature 
that,  to  use  his  own  words  in  another  direction, 
they  are  "  the  true  and  perfect  image  of  life  in- 
deed." The  lovers  of  the  great  bard  when  only 
the  stage  knew  his  works  may  have  been  influ- 
enced by  affection  rather  than  knowledge  in 
awarding  him  their  unbounded  admiration ;  but 
their  approval  has  since  been  more  than  endorsed 

154 


VARIOUS  ESTIMATES   OF  SHAKESPEARE.    155 

by  men  of  learning  and  wisdom,  who,  in  some 
instances,  have  almost  grudgingly  admitted  his 
perfection  as  a  poet,  and  pronounced  him  as  a 
dramatist  beyond  compare.  His  warm  friend  and 
just  admirer,  Ben  Jonson,  in  the  severity  of  his 
criticism  said  there  were  matters  in  the  Shake- 
spearian compositions  that  for  the  author's  rep- 
utation he  had  better  have  stricken  out;  other 
writers,  again,  of  great  repute,  have  pronounced 
it  heresy  to  find  any  fault  with  their  oracle  ;  while 
Voltaire,  who  did  not  and  could  not  understand 
Shakespeare,  affected  to  consider  him  as  beneath 
criticism,  and  charged  the  English  people  with 
worshipping  "a  mere  barbarian."  Some  English 
critics  who  aspired  to  poetic  honors  themselves 
have  denounced  our  favorite  bard  as  "a  kind  of 
wild  Proteus  or  madman,"  and  would,  but  for  a 
wholesome  fear  of  public  justice,  have  essayed 
"  to  knock  down  the  Poet  with  the  butt-end  of  a 
critical  staff; "  and  a  writer  of  the  last  century,  a 
man  of  the  world  in  a  refined  sense,  and  an  ac- 
complished scholar,  takes  the  ground  that  many 
blemishes  exist  on  Shakespeare's  pages  for  which 
he  could  not  be  held  originally  responsible.  This 
writer,  in  an  admirable  essay,  complains,  as  does 
the  Rev.  John  Upton,  Prebendary  of  Rochester, 
in  a  learned  work  on  Shakespeare  (1745),  that  the 
fault-finding  spirit  of  too  many  English  critics  dis- 
abled their  judgment  and  rendered  them  incapa- 
ble of  a  just  perception  of  the  inimitable  beauties 
which  lie  thickly  strewn  all  through  the  works  of 
the  man  for  whom  the  world  entertains  so  pro- 


156      MORGAN'S  "ESSAY  ON  SHAKESPEARE?* 

found  an  admiration.  Nearly  a  century  ago  one 
of  the  most  original  and  able  critics  of  Shake- 
speare, Mr.  Maurice  Morgan,*  said  that  in  dra- 
matic composition  the  impression  is  the  fact.  The 
extracts  from  his  essay  which  compose  the  present 
chapter  cannot  fail  to  be  acceptable  to  the  student 
of  Shakespeare.  I  have  found  the  author's  ideas 
to  be  consonant  with  my  own  regarding  the  im- 
pression which  Shakespeare's  characters  make 
upon  the  mind,  irrespective  of  operations  of  the 
mere  understanding. 

STUDIES   FROM   MAURICE   MORGAN'S   "ESSAY 
ON   SHAKESPEARE." 

"  Though  there  may  be  in  the  composition  much 
calculated  to  puzzle  and  mislead  the  understand- 
ing with  regard  to  the  details  of  delineation,  yet 
the  true  conception  of  a  character,  as  a  whole, 
may  depend  upon  the  impression  it  makes  upon 
the  mind.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  mental 
impressions  are  distinguished  here  from  the  un- 
derstanding. I  wish  to  avoid  everything  that 
looks  like  subtlety  and  refinement,  but  this  is  a 
distinction  which  we  all  comprehend. 

*  Maurice  Morgan,  Esq.,  was  of  an  ancient  and  respectable  family  in 
Wales.  He  served  as  Under-Secretary  of  State  to  the  marquis  of  Lands- 
downe,  and  was  afterward  secretary  to  the  embassy  for  ratifying  the  peace 
with  America  (1783).  He  died  March  28,  1802,  in  the  seventy-seventh 
year  of  his  age.  The  extracts  I  have  quoted  in  these  pages  are  from  his 
Essay  on  the  Dramatic  Character  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  the  only  work  of 
the  kind  the  author  ever  published. 

Dr.  Symmons,  in  his  Life  of  Milton,  says  of  Mr.  Morgan :  "  His  re- 
peated injunctions  have  impelled  his  executors  to  an  indiscriminate  destruc- 
tion of  his  papers,  some  of  which,  in  the  walks  of  politics,  metaphysics, 
and  criticism,  would  have  planted  a  permanent  laurel  on  his  grave." 


FEELINGS  VS.    THE    UNDERSTANDING.       157 

"There  are  none  of  us  unconscious  of  certain 
feelings  or  sensations  of  mind  which  do  not  seem 
to  have  passed  through  the  understanding — the 
effect,  I  suppose,  of  some  secret  influences  from 
without  acting  upon  a  certain  mental  sense,  and 
producing  feelings  and  passions  in  just  corre- 
spondence to  the  force  and  variety  of  those  influ- 
ences on  the  one  hand,  and  to  the  quickness  of 
our  sensibility  on  the  other.  Be  the  cause,  how- 
ever, what  it  may,  the  fact  is  undoubtedly  so; 
which  is  all  I  am  concerned  in. 

"And  it  is  equally  a  fact,  which  every  man's 
experience  may  avouch,  that  the  understanding 
and  those  feelings  are  frequently  at  variance. 
The  latter  often  arise  from  the  most  minute  cir- 
cumstances, and  frequently  from  such  as  the  un- 
derstanding cannot  estimate  or  even  recognize ; 
whereas  the  understanding  delights  in  abstractions 
and  in  general  propositions,  which,  however  true 
considered  as  such,  are  very  seldom — I  had  like  to 
have  said  never — perfectly  applicable  to  any  par- 
ticular case.  And  hence,  among  other  causes,  it 
is  that  we  often  condemn  or  applaud  characters 
and  actions  on  the  credit  of  some  logical  process, 
while  our  hearts  revolt  and  would  fain  lead  us  to 
a  very  different  conclusion. 

"The  understanding  seems,  for  the  most  part, 
to  take  cognizance  of  actions  only,  and  from  these 
to  infer  motives  and  characters ;  but  the  sense 
we  have  been  speaking  of  proceeds  in  a  contrary 
course,  and  determines  of  actions  from  certain 
first  principles  of  character  which  seem  wholly 

14 


158   OUR  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  CHARACTER. 

out  of  the  reach  of  the  understanding.  We  can- 
not, indeed,  do  otherwise  than  admit  that  there 
must  be  distinct  principles  of  character  in  every 
distinct  individual ;  the  manifest  variety,  even  in 
the  minds  of  infants,  will  oblige  us  to  this.  But 
what  are  these  first  principles  of  character  ?  Not 
the  objects,  I  am  persuaded,  of  the  understanding, 
and  yet  we  take  as  strong  impressions  of  them  as 
if  we  could  compare  and  assort  them  in  a  syllo- 
gism. We  often  love  or  hate  at  first  sight,  and 
indeed,  in  general,  dislike  or  approve  by  some 
secret  reference  to  these  principles  ;  and  we  judge 
even  of  conduct,  not  from  any  idea  of  abstract 
good  or  evil  in  the  nature  of  actions,  but  by  refer- 
ring those  actions  to  a  supposed  original  character 
in  the  man  himself.  I  do  not  mean  that  we  talk 
thus ;  we  could  not  indeed,  if  we  would,  explain 
ourselves  in  detail  on  this  head:  we  can  neither 
account  for  impressions  and  passions  nor  commu- 
nicate them  to  others  by  words.  Tones  and  looks 
will  sometimes  convey  the  passion  strangely,  but 
the  impression  is  incommunicable.  The  same 
causes  may  produce  it,  indeed,  at  the  same  time 
in  many,  but  it  is  the  separate  possession  of  each, 
and  not  in  its  nature  transferable ;  it  is  an  imper- 
fect sort  of  instinct,  and  proportionably  dumb. 

14  We  might,  indeed,  if  we  choose  it,  candidly  con- 
fess to  one  another  that  we  are  greatly  swayed  by 
these  feelings,  and  are  by  no  means  so  rational  in 
all  points  as  we  could  wish ;  but  this  would  be  a 
betrayal  of  the  interests  of  that  high  faculty,  the 
understanding,  which  we  so  value  ourselves  upon, 


JUDGMENT  OF   THE   UNDERSTANDING.     159 

and  which  we  more  peculiarly  call  our  own.  This, 
we  think,  must  not  be,  and  so  we  huddle  up  the 
matter,  concealing  it  as  much  as  possible  both 
from  ourselves  and  others. 

"In  books,  indeed,  wherein  character,  motive, 
and  action  are  all  alike  subjected  to  the  under- 
standing, it  is  generally  a  very  clear  case,  and 
we  make  decisions  compounded  of  them  all ;  and 
thus  we  are  willing  to  approve  of  Candide,  though 
he  kills  my  lord  the  Inquisitor  and  runs  through 
the  body  of  Baron  of  Thunder-ten-trouchk,  the 
son  of  his  patron  and  the  brother  of  his  beloved 
Cunegonde ;  but  in  real  life,  I  believe,  my  lords 
the  judges  would  be  apt  to  inform  the  gentlemen 
of  the  jury  that  my  lord  the  Inquisitor  was  ill- 
killed,  as  Candide  did  not  proceed  on  the  urgen- 
cy of  the  moment,  but  on  the  speculation  only 
of  future  evil.  And,  indeed,  this  clear  perception 
in  novels  and  plays  of  the  union  of  character  and 
action  not  seen  in  Nature  is  the  principal  defect 
of  such  compositions,  and  what  renders  them  but 
ill  pictures  of  human  life  and  wretched  guides  of 
conduct. 

"  But  if  there  was  one  man  in  the  world  who 
could  make  a  more  perfect  draught  of  real  Nature, 
and  steal  such  impressions  on  his  audience  with- 
out their  special  notice  as  should  keep  their  hold 
in  .spite  of  any  error  of  their  understanding,  and 
should  thereupon  venture  to  introduce  an  appa- 
rent incongruity  of  character  and  action  suscept- 
ible of  explanation,  such  an  imitation  would  be 
worth  our  nicest  curiosity  and  attention.  But  in 


160  NATURE,   MAGIC,  REASON. 

such  a  case  as  this  the  reader  might  expect  that 
he  should  find  us  all  talking  the  language  of  the 
understanding  only ;  that  is,  censuring  the  action, 
with  very  little  conscientious  investigation  even 
of  that,  and  transferring  the  censure  in  every 
odious  color  to  the  actor  himself,  how  much 
soever  our  hearts  and  affections  might  secretly 
revolt ;  for  as  to  the  impression,  we  have  already 
observed  that  it  has  no  tongue,  nor  are  its  opera- 
tion and  influence  iikely  to  be  made  the  subject 
of  conference  and  communication. 

"A  felt  propriety  or  truth  of  art  from  an  un- 
seen though  supposed  adequate  cause  we  call 
Nature.  A  like  feeling  of  propriety  and  truth, 
supposed  without  a  cause  or  as  seeming  to  be 
derived  from  causes  inadequate,  fantastic,  and 
absurd,  such  as  wands,  circles,  incantations,  and 
so  forth,  we  call  by  the  general  name  Magic,  in- 
cluding all  the  train  of  superstition,  witches, 
ghosts,  fairies,  and  the  rest. 

"Reason  is  confined  to  the  line  of  visible  ex- 
istence ;  our  passions  and  our  fancy  extend  far 
beyond  into  the  obscure ;  but,  however  lawless 
their  operations  may  seem,  the  images,  they  so 
wildly  form  have  yet  a  relation  to  truth,  and  are 
the  shadows  at  least,  however  fantastic,  of  reality. 

"I  am  not  investigating,  but  passing,  this  sub- 
ject, and  must  therefore  leave  behind  me  much 
curious  speculation.  Of  personification,  however, 
we  should  observe  that  those  which  are  made  out 
of  abstract  ideas  are  the  creatures  of  the  under- 
standing only ;  thus,  of  the  mixed  modes,  virtue, 


PERSONIFICATION  OF   THE  PASSIONS.      l6l 

beauty,  wisdom,  and  others,  what  are  they  but 
very  obscure  ideas  of  qualities  considered  as  ab- 
stracted from  any  subject  whatever  ?  The  mind 
cannot  steadily  contemplate  such  an  abstraction ; 
what  then  does  it  do  ?  Invent  or  imagine  a  sub- 
ject in  order  to  support  these  qualities,  and  hence 
we  get  the  nymphs  or  goddesses  of  virtue,  of 
beauty,  or  of  wisdom,  the  very  obscurity  of  the 
ideas  being  the  cause  of  their  conversion  into 
sensible  objects  with  precision  both  of  feature 
and  of  form. 

"But  as  reason  has  its  personifications,  so  has 
passion.  Every  passion  has  its  object,  though 
often  indistinct  and  obscure ;  to  be  brought  nearer, 
then,  and  rendered  more  distinct,  it  is  personified, 
and  Fancy  fantastically  decks  or  aggravates  .  the 
form  and  adds  'a  local  habitation  and  a  name.' 
But  passion  is  the  dupe  of  its  own  artifice,  and 
realizes  the  image  it  had  formed.  The  Grecian 
theology  was  mixed  of  both  these  kinds  of  per- 
sonification. Of  the  images  produced  by  passion 
it  must  be  observed  that  they  are  the  images,  for 
the  most  part,  not  of  the  passions  themselves,  but 
of  their  remote  effects.  Guilt  looks  through  the 
medium,  and  beholds  a  devil ;  fear,  spectres  of 
every  sort;  hope,  a  smiling  cherub;  malice  and 
envy  see  hags  and  witches  and  enchanters  dire ; 
while  the  innocent  and  the  young  behold  with 
fearful  delight  the  tripping  fairy  whose  shadowy 
form  the  moon  gilds  with  its  softest  beams. 

"  Extravagant  as  all  this  appears  in  a  prosaic 
sense,  it  has  its  laws  so  precise  that  we  are  sensi- 

14*  L 


1 62         MALICE  PERSONIFIED  IN  CALIBAN. 

ble  both  of  a  local  and  temporary  and  of  a  uni- 
versal magic ;  the  first  derived  from  the  general 
nature  of  the  human  mind,  influenced  by  partic- 
ular habits,  institutions,  and  climate;  and  the 
latter,  from  the  same  general  nature,  abstracted 
from  those  considerations.  Of  the  first  sort  the 
machinery  in  Macbeth  is  a  very  striking  instance 
— a  machinery,  which,  however  exquisite  at  the 
time,  has  already  lost  more  than  half  its  force, 
and  the  gallery  now  laughs  in  some  places  where 
it  ought  to  shudder ;  but  the  magic  of  The  Temp- 
est is  lasting  and  universal. 

"There  is,  besides,  a  species  of  writing  for 
which  we  have  no  term  of  art,  and  which  holds 
a  middle  place  between  Nature  and  magic.  I 
mean  where  fancy,  either  alone  or  mingled  with 
reason,  or  reason  assuming  the  appearance  of 
fancy,  governs  some  real  existence ;  but  the 
whole  of  this  art  is  portrayed  in  a  single  play 
— in  the  real  madness  of  Lear,  in  the  assumed 
wildness  of  Edgar,  and  in  the  professional  fan- 
tasque  of  the  Fool, — all  operating  to  contrast 
and  heighten  each  other.  There  is  yet  another 
feat  of  this  kind  which  Shakespeare  has  per- 
formed ;  he  has  personified  Malice  in  his  Caliban 
— a  character  kneaded  up  of  three  distinct  na- 
tures, the  diabolical,  the  human,  and  the  brute. 
The  rest  of  his  preternatural  beings  are  images 
of  effects  only,  and  cannot  subsist  but  in  a  sur- 
rounding atmosphere  of  those  passions  from 
which  they  are  derived.  Caliban  is  the  passion 
itself,  or  rather  a  compound  of  malice,  servility, 


GHOSTS  IN  THE  DRAMA.  163 

and  lust  substantiated,  and  therefore  best  shown 
in  contrast  with  the  lightness  of  Ariel  and  the 
innocence  of  Miranda. 

"  Witches  are  sometimes  substantial  existences, 
supposed  to  be  possessed  by  or  allied  to  the  un- 
substantial ;  but  the  witches  in  Macbeth  are  a 
gross  sort  of  shadows — 'bubbles  of  the  earth,' 
as  they  are  finely  called  by  Banquo.  Ghosts 
differ  from  other  imaginary  beings  in  this,  that 
they  belong  to  no  element,  have  no  specific  nature 
or  character,  and  are  effects,  however  harsh  the 
expression,  supposed  without  a  cause ;  the  reason 
of  which  is,  that  they  are  not  the  creation  of  the 
poet,  but  the  servile  copies  or  transcripts  of  pop- 
ular imagination  connected  with  supposed  reality 
and  religion.  Should  the  poet  assign  the  true 
cause,  and  call  them  the  mere  painting  or  '  coin- 
age of  the  brain,'  he  would  disappoint  his  own 
end  and  destroy  the  being  he  had  raised.  Should 
he  assign  fictitious  causes,  and  add  a  specific 
nature  and  a  local  habitation,  it  would  not  be 
endured,  or  the  effect  would  be  lost  by  the  con- 
version of  one  being  into  another.  The  approach 
to  reality  in  this  case  defeats  all  the  arts  and  man- 
agements of  fiction. 

"  The  whole  play  of  The  Tempest  is  of  so  high 
and  superior  a  nature  that  Dryden,  who  had 
attempted  to  imitate  in  vain,  might  well  exclaim 
that 

Shakespeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be ; 
Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  He. 


1 64  NATURE  OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  CHARACTERS. 

"The  reader  must  be  sensible  of  something* in 
the  composition  of  Shakespeare's  characters  which 
renders  them  essentially  different  from  those 
drawn  by  other  writers. 

"The  characters  of  every  drama  must  indeed  be 
grouped,  but  in  the  groups  of  other  poets  the 
parts  which  are  not  seen  do  not  in  fact  exist. 
There  is  a  certain  roundness  and  integrity  in  the 
forms  of  Shakespeare  which  give  them  an  inde- 
pendence as  well  as  a  relation,  insomuch  that  we 
often  meet  with  passages  which,  though  perfectly 
felt,  cannot  be  sufficiently  explained  in  words 
without  unfolding  the  whole  character  of  the 
speaker.  It  may  be  said  of  the  composition  of 
his  characters  in  a  conjectural  sense  that  they 
were  the  effect  not  so  much  of  a  minute  and  la- 
borious attention  as  of  a  certain  comprehensive 
energy  of  mind  involving  within  itself  all  the 
effects  of  system  and  of  labor. 

"  Bodies  of  all  kinds,  whether  of  metals,  plants, 
or  animals,  are  supposed  to  possess  certain  first 
principles  of  being,  and  to  have  an  existence 
independent  of  the  accidents  which  form  their 
magnitude  or  growth;  those  accidents  are  sup- 
posed to  be  drawn  in  from  the  surrounding  ele- 
ments, but  not  indiscriminately;  each  plant  and 
each  animal  imbibes  those  things  only  which  are 
proper  to  its  own  distinct  nature,  and  which  have, 
besides,  such  a  secret  relation  to  each  other  as  to 
be  capable  of  forming  a  perfect  union  and  coales- 
cence. But  so  variously  are  the  surrounding  ele- 


THEIR   VARIOUS  COMPOSITION.  165 

ments  mingled  and  disposed  that  each  particular 
body,  even  of  those  under  the  same  species,  has 
yet  some  peculiar  of  its  own.  Shakespeare  ap- 
pears to  have  considered  the  being  and  growth 
of  the  human  mind  as  analogous  to  this  system ; 
there  are  certain  qualities  and  capacities  which  he 
seems  to  have  considered  as  first  principles,  the 
chief  of  which  are  certain  energies  of  courage 
and  activity,  according  to  their  degrees,  together 
with  different  degrees  and  sorts  of  sensibilities, 
and  a  capacity  varying  likewise  in  the  degree  of 
discernment  and  intelligence.  The  rest  of  the 
composition  is  drawn  in  from  an  atmosphere  of 
surrounding  things ;  that  is,  from  the  various 
influences  of  the  different  laws,  religions,  and 
governments  in  the  world,  and  from  those  of  the 
different  ranks  and  inequalities  in  society,  and 
from  the  different  professions  of  men,  encouraging 
or  repressing  passions  of  particular  sorts,  and 
inducing  different  modes  of  thinking  and  habits 
of  life ;  and  he  seems  to  have  known  .intuitively 
what  those  influences  in  particular  were  which 
this  or  that  original  constitution  would  most  free- 
ly imbibe,  and  which  would  most  easily  associate 
and  coalesce.  But  all  these  things  being  in  dif- 
ferent situations  very  differently  disposed,  and 
those  differences  exactly  discerned  by  him,  he 
found  no  difficulty  in  marking  every  individual, 
even  among  characters  of  the  same  sort,  with 
something  peculiar  and  distinct.  Climate  and 
complexion  demand  their  influence.  '  Be  thus 
when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee,  and  love 


1 66  SHAKESPEARE 'S  INTUITIVE  COMPREHENSION. 

thee  after,'  is  a  sentiment  characteristic  of,  and 
fit  only  to  be  uttered  by,  a  Moor. 

"  But  it  was  not  enough  for  Shakespeare  to 
have  formed  his  characters  with  the  most  perfect 
truth  and  coherence ;  it  was  further  necessary 
that  he  should  possess  a  wonderful  facility  of 
compressing,  as  it  were,  his  own  spirit  into  these 
images,  and  of  giving  alternate  animation  to  the 
forms.  This  was  not  to  be  done  from  withoiit ; 
he  must  have  felt  every  varied  situation,  and 
have  spoken  through  the  organ  he  had  formed. 

"  Such  an  intuitive  comprehension  of  things 
and  such  a  facility  must  unite  to  produce  a 
Shakespeare.  The  reader  will  not  now  be  sur- 
prised if  I  affirm  that  those  characters  in  Shake- 
speare which  are  seen  only  in  part  are  yet 
capable  of  being  unfolded  and  understood  in  the 
whole,  every  part  being,  in  fact,  relative,  and 
inferring  all  the  rest.  It  is  true  that  the  point  of 
action  or  sentiment  which  we  are  most  concerned 
in  is  always  held  out  for  our  special  notice.  But 
who  does  not  perceive  that  there  is  a  peculiarity 
about  it  which  conveys  a  relish  of  the  whole? 
And  very  frequently,  when  no  particular  point 
presses,  he  boldly  makes  a  character  act  and 
speak  from  those  parts  of  the  composition  which 
are  inferred  only  and  not  distinctly  shown.  This 
produces  a  wonderful  effect ;  it  seems  to  carry  us 
beyond  the  poet  to  Nature  itself,  and  gives  an 
integrity  and  truth  to  facts  and  character  which 
they  could  not  otherwise  obtain  ;  and  this  is,  in 
reality,  that  art  in  Shakespeare  which,  being  with- 


SHAKESPEARE'S  FAME    UNIVERSAL.         1 67 

drawn  from  our  notice,  we  more  emphatically  call 
Nature. 

"  A  felt  propriety  and  truth  from  causes  unseen 
I  take  to  be  the  highest  form  of  poetic  compo- 
sition. If  the  characters  of  Shakespeare  are  thus 
whole,  and,  as  it  were,  original,  while  those  of 
almost  all  other  writers  are  mere  imitation,  it  may 
be  fit  to  consider  them  rather  as  historic  than 
dramatic  beings,  and  when  occasion  requires  to 
account  for  their  conduct  from  the  whole  of  cha- 
racter, from  general  principles,  from  latent  mo- 
tives, and  from  policies  not  avowed. 

****** 

"  When  the  hand  of  time  shall  have  brushed 
off  his  present  editors  and  commentators,  and 
when  the  very  name  of  Voltaire,  and  even  the 
memory  of  the  language  in  which  he  has  written, 
shall  be  no  more,  the  Appalachian  Mountains,  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio,  and  the  plains  of  Scioto  shall 
resound  with  the  accents  of  this  barbarian ;  in  his 
native  tongue  he  shall  roll  the  genuine  passions 
of  Nature ;  nor  shall  the  griefs  of  Lear  be  allevia- 
ted or  the  charms  and  wit  of  Rosalind  be  abated 
by  time.  There  is  indeed  nothing  perishable 
about  him  except  that  very  learning  which  he  is 
said  so  much  to  want.  He  had  not,  it  is  true, 
enough  for  the  demands  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  but  he  had  perhaps  too  much  for  the  reach 
of  his  genius  and  the  interest  of  his  fame.  Milton 
and  he  will  carry  the  decayed  remnants  and  frip- 
peries of  ancient  mythology  into  more  distant 
ages  than  they  are,  by  their  own  force,N  en  titled  to 


1 68        SHAKESPEARE'S    TRUTH   TO  NATURE. 

extend,  and  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid,  upheld 
by  them,  lay  a  new  claim  to  unmerited  immor- 
tality. 

"Shakespeare  is  a  name  so  interesting  that  it 
is  excusable  to  stop  a  moment  in  any  place  and 
at  any  time  to  pay  his  worth  the  tribute  of  some 
admiration.  He  differs  essentially  from  all  other 
writers ;  we  may  profess  rather  to  feel  than  to 
understand  him ;  it  is  safer  to  say,  on  many  occa- 
sions, that  we  are  possessed  by  him  than  that  we 
possess  him.  And  no  wonder:  he  scatters  the 
seeds  of  things,  the  principles  of  character  and 
action,  with  so  cunning  a  hand,  yet  with  so  care- 
less an  air,  and,  master  of  our  feelings,  submits 
himself  so  little  to  our  judgment,  that  everything 
seems  superior.  We  discern  not  his  course,  we 
see  no  connection  of  cause  and  effect;  we  are 
rapt  in  ignorant  admiration,  and  claim  no  kindred 
with  his  abilities.  All  the  incidents,  all  the  parts, 
look  like  chance,  whilst  we  feel  and  are  sensible 
that  the  whole  is  design.  His  characters  not  only 
act  and  speak  in  strict  conformity  to  Nature,  but 
in  strict  relation  to  us ;  just  so  much  is  shown  as 
is  requisite — just  so  much  is  impressed.  He  com- 
mends every  passage  to  our  heads  and  to  our 
hearts,  and  moulds  us  as  he  pleases ;  and  that 
with  so  much  ease  that  he  never  betrays  his  own 
exertions.  We  see  these  characters  act  from  the 
mingled  motives  of  passion,  reason,  interest,  habit, 
and  complexion,  in  all  their  proportions,  when 
they  are  supposed  to  know  it  not  themselves ; 
and  we  are  made  to  acknowledge  that  their  ac- 


HIS  EXCELLENCE  IN  EVERYTHING.         169 

tions  and  sentiments  are,  from  these  motives,  the 
necessary  result.  He  at  once  blends  and  distin- 
guishes everything;  everything  is  complicated, 
everything  is  plain. 

"We  restrain  the  further  expression  of  our  ad- 
miration, lest  it  should  not  seem  applicable  to 
man ;  but  it  is  really  astonishing  that  a  mere 
human  being,  a  part  of  humanity  only,  should  so 
perfectly  comprehend  the  whole,  and  that  he 
should  possess  such  exquisite  art  that,  whilst 
every  woman  and  every  child  shall  feel  the 
whole  effect,  his  learned  editors  and  commenta- 
tors should  yet  so  very  frequently  mistake  or 
seem  ignorant  of  the  cause.  A  sceptre  or  a 
straw  is  in  his  hands  of  equal  efficacy ;  he  needs 
no  selection ;  he  converts  everything  into  excel- 
lence ;  nothing  is  too  great,  nothing  is  too  base. 
Is  a  character  efficient,  like  Richard,  it  is  every- 
thing we  can  wish ;  is  it  otherwise,  like  Harnlet,  it 
is  productive  of  equal  admiration ;  action  pro- 
duces one  mode  of  excellence,  and  inaction  an- 
other. The  chronicle,  the  novel,  or  the  ballad, 
the  king  or  the  beggar,  the  hero,  the  madman, 
the  sot,  or  the  fool, — it  is  all  one;  nothing  is  worse, 
nothing  is  better ;  the  same  genius  pervades  and 
is  equally  admirable  in  all.  Or  is  a  character  to 
be  shown  in  progressive  change  and  the  events 
of  years  comprised  within  the  hour;  with  what 
a  magic  hand  does  he  prepare  and  scatter  his 
spells !  The  understanding  must,  in  the  first 
place,  be  subdued,  and  lo !  how  the  rooted  preju- 
dices of  the  child  spring  up  to  confound  the  man ! 

15 


I  70  SHAKESPEARE  AND   ARISTOTLE. 

The  weird  sisters  rise,  and  order  is  extinguished ; 
the  laws  of  Nature  give  way,  and  leave  nothing  in 
our  minds  but  wildness  and  horror.  No  pause  is 
allowed  us  for  reflection ;  horrid  sentiments,  furi- 
ous guilt  and  compunction,  air-drawn  daggers, 
murders,  ghosts,  and  enchantment,  shake  and 
possess  us  wholly.  In  the  mean  time  the  process 
is  complete.  Macbeth  changes  under  our  eye ; 
the  milk  of  human  kindness  is  converted  to  gall ; 
he  has  supped  full  of  horrors,  and  his  May  of  life 
is  fallen  into  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf;  whilst  we, 
the  fools  of  amazement,  are  insensible  to  the 
shifting  of  place  and  the  lapse  of  time,  and  till 
the  curtain  drops  never  once  awake  to  the  truth 
of  things  or  recognize  the  laws  of  existence. 

"  On  such  an  occasion  a  fellow  like  Rymer, 
waking  from  his  trance,  shall  lift  up  his  consta- 
ble's staff  and  charge  this  great  magician,  this 
daring  practiser  of  arts  inhibited,  in  the  name 
of  Aristotle  to  surrender;  whilst  Aristotle  him- 
self, disowning  his  wretched  officer,  would  fall 
prostrate  at  his  feet  and  acknowledge  his  su- 
premacy :* 

*O  supreme  of  dramatic  excellence !'  might  he  say, 
'  Not  to  me  be  imputed  the  insolence  of  fools. 

The  bards  of  Greece  were  confined  within  the 
narrow  circle  of  the  Chorus,  and  hence  they 
found  themselves  constrained  to  practise,  for  the 

*  [It  has  been  remarked  that  this  apology,  which  Morgan  assigns  to 
Aristotle  from  his  name  being  improperly  used  by  his  wretched  officers, 
Rymer  and  other  commentators,  is  one  of  the  most  luminous  and  critical 
defences  of  Shakespeare's  not  being  bound  by  the  unities  which  perhaps 
has  ever  been  produced.] — AUTHOR. 


TRUE  POESY  IS  MAGIC.  I  71 

most  part,  the  precision  and  copy  the  details  of 
Nature.  I  followed  them,  and  knew  not  that  a 
larger  circle  might  be  drawn,  and  the  drama  ex- 

o  o  , 

tended  to  the  whole  reach  of  human  genius. 
Convinced,  I  see  that  a  more  compendious  Na- 
ture may  be  obtained — a  Nature  of  effects  only, 
to  which  neither  the  relations  of  place  nor  conti- 
nuity of  time  are  always  essential.  Nature,  con- 
descending to  the  faculties  and  apprehensions 
of  man,  has  drawn  through  human  life  a  regular 
chain  of  visible  causes  and  effects ;  but  Poetry 
delights  in  surprises,  conceals  her  steps,  seizes 
at  once  upon  the  heart,  and  obtains  the  sublime 
of  things,  without  betraying  the  rounds  of  her 
ascent;  true  Poesy  is  magic,  not  Nature — an 
effect  from  causes  hidden  or  unknown.  To  the 
magician  I  prescribed  no  laws;  his  law  and  his 
power  are  one ;  his  power  is  his  law.  Him,  who 
neither  imitates  nor  is  within  the  reach  of  imita- 
tion, no  precedent  can  or  ought  to  bind,  no  limits 
to  contain.  If  his  end  is  obtained,  who  shall 
question  his  course?  Means,  whether  apparent 
or  hidden,  are  justified  in'  Poesy  by  success ;  but 
then  most  perfect  and  most  admirable  when  most 
concealed/  " 


CHAPTER    IX. 

BOOTH  AND   KEAN  IN  LONDON.— BOOTH  IN 
AMERICA.    . 

A  T  the  time  of  Edmund  Kean's  appearance  in 
^~*  London  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre  was.  under 
the  management  of  a  committee  of  the  stock- 
holders or  patentees,  among  whom  were  men  of 
fortune  and  others  distinguished  in  literature  and 
the  arts.  As  the  finances  of  the  theatre  were 
in  a  low  condition,  it  had  been  found  necessary 
to  concentrate  the  force  of  the  press  and  certain 
influences  in  society  to  produce  a  sensation,  and 
Mr.  Kean  was  selected  as  the  most  suitable  per- 
son "  to  stir  up  the  town."  His  eccentric  and 
dazzling  style  of  acting  was  quite  popular  in  the 
provincial  theatres,  where  he  had  been  seen  by 
some  of  the  Drury  Lane  committee,  who  had  in- 
vited him  to  the  metr6polis.  It  was  well  under- 
stood in  managerial 'quarters  that,  no  matter  what 
Kean's  genius  might  be,  he  lacked  a  London  rep- 
utation, and  therefore  it  was  necessary  that  the- 
atrical wire  pulling  should  be  set  in  motion  to  the 
fullest  extent,  that  his  success  might  be  assured 
if  he  should  exhibit  genius  or  talent  at  all  equal 
to  the  necessities  of  the  occasion. 

In  spite  of  every  effort  to  drum  up  an  audience 
by  the  usual  plan  of  distributing  free  tickets  or 

172 


OVATIONS    TO   EDMUND  KEAN.  173 

orders,  in  consequence  of  disagreeable  weather 
the  house  on  Kean's  first  night  presented  an 
appearance  by  no  means  encouraging.  The  pit, 
however,  was  "  papered "  with  a  strong  array  of 
what  were  known  as  the  "  heavy  swells "  of  the 
critical  world  of  London,  who,  heartily  sympa- 
thizing with  the  management,  were  determined 
to  make  things  lively  with  the  public.  The  whole 
of  this  well-arranged  programme  was  carried  out 
by  management  and  actor  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all  parties  concerned.  In  theatrical  parlance, 
Kean  made  a  "  decided  hit :"  the  machinery  was 
set  in  motion  for  a  brilliant  financial  success.  The 
genius  of  the  actor  and  the  skill  of  the  managers 
produced  one  of  those  periodic  dramatic  fevers 
to  which  the  Londoners  have  been  more  or  less 
subject  from  the  days  of  Garrick  and  Betty  down 
to  those  of  the  present  living  Sarah  Bernhardt. 

During  the  prevalence  of  what  might  be  called 
a  continuous  ovation  to  the  genius  of  Edmund 
Kean  the  English  language  was  almost  exhaust- 
ed in  epigrammatic  forms  of  eulogy.  Hazlitt, 
Coleridge,  Charles  Lamb,  and  a  host  of  the  lumi- 
naries of  the  critical  world  of  London  were  con- 
stant visitors  to  the  theatre  and  contributors  to 
the  press.  Lord  Byron,  Sheridan,  and  others 
of  the  Drury  Lane  committee  complimented  the 
great  tragedian  with  presentations,  dinners,  and 
other  public  manifestations  of  approval.  Among 
the  extravagances  of  the  critics,  Southey  is  re- 
ported to  have  exclaimed,  while  gazing  at  Kean 
in  one  of  his  terrible  bursts  of  passion,  "  He 

15* 


I74  JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH. 

looks  like  Michael  Angelo's  rebellious  archan- 
gel ;"  to  which  a  companion  replied,  "  He  looks 
like  the  archangel  himself."  Another  writer 
affirmed  that  "Electricity  was  not  more  vivid 
and  instantaneous  than  Kean's  acting.''  But  the 
"  Pelion  upon  Ossa  "  of  this  verbal  extravagance 
culminated  in  the  following  brilliant  effusion: 
"The  effect  of  Kean's  acting  is  like  reading 
Shakespeare  by  flashes  of  lightning."  This  was 
attributed  to  Coleridge,  and  claimed  for  Charles 
Lamb,  while  others  accredited  it  to  Lord  Byron, 
as  it  was  thought  to  bear  a  strong  likeness  to 
the  intensified  style  peculiar  to  that  poet.  Tom 
Moore,  with  an  eye  to  results  in  the  ups  and 
downs  of  public  opinion,  said,  "  Kean  is  now  in 
the  honeymoon  of  criticism,  but  he  will  soon  real- 
ize the  difference  between  being  written  up  and 
being  written  down." 

JUNIUS  BRUTUS   BOOTH. 

In  the  midst  of  this  great  dramatic  furore  ap- 
peared an  actor  of  sterling  worth  but  modest 
character,  who  ventured  to  enter  the  lists  as  "a 
free  lance  "  and  try  a  tilt  with  the  successful  hero 
of  the  tournament;  but,  as  "two  stars  keep  not 
their  motion  in  one  sphere,"  and  as  London  could 
not  "  brook  the  double  reign  "  of  Edmund  Kean 
and  Junius  Brutus  Booth,  the  latter,  after  a  short 
but  brilliant  contest,  left  the  field.  Booth  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  succeed  in  leading  cha- 
racters at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  where  he  had 
possession  of  several  first-class  parts  in  which  he 


BOOTH  OVERSHADOWED  BY  KEAN.         175 

was  popular,  and  he  could  no  doubt  have  gained  a 
fair  share  of  the  honors  had  he  waited  the  issue ; 
but  he  fell  a  victim  to  his  ambition  and  an  adroit 
"  trick  of  the  trade."  Allured  by  attractive  offers, 
suggested  by  Mr.  Kean,  to  act  equal  parts  in  the 
same  plays,  he  went  over  to  Drury  Lane,  and 
the  consequences  were  such  as  might  have  been 
expected  from  the  overwhelming  odds  to  be  en- 
countered in  a  contest  with  the  established  favor- 
ite of  the  town  in  the  very  heyday  of  his  success 
and  on  his  own  ground.  Booth  was  overshad- 
owed by  Kean,  and  retired  from  Drury  Lane, 
and  as  a  consequence  met  with  a  cool  reception 
on  his  return  to  Covent  Garden.  With  his  eccen- 
tric character  and  highly-sensitive  organization  he 
must  have  deeply  felt  the  disappointment  which 
had  crushed  his  aspirations  and  deprived  him  of 
an  honorable  position ;  and  after  playing  in  some 
of  the  minor  theatres  he  became  disgusted  with 
English  audiences  and  turned  his  face  westward. 
The  idea  of  a  London  failure  and  the  charge  of 
being  a  mere  imitator  had  preceded  him  to  Amer- 
ica, where  the  critics,  taking  their  cue  from  these 
reports,  influenced  the  public  mind  for  a  time  and 
prevented  a  correct  estimate  of  the  tragedian's 
wonderful  powers.  But  he  soon  struck  the  key- 
note of  popular  appreciation  and  took  a  com- 
manding position  on  the  American  stage. 

Booth,  it  may  be  affirmed,  displayed  the  most 
wonderful  combination  of  intellectual  beauty  and 
force  with  consummate  dramatic  skill  which  was 
ever  exhibited  in  modern  times.  According  to 


176  BOOTH  NOT  AN  IMITATOR. 

our  theories  of  dramatic  art,  and  especially  of 
its  vocal  characteristics,  he  was  only  equalled  by 
Garrick  himself;  and  had  he  happened  to  have 
lived  in  the  same  period  and  have  been  surround- 
ed by  the  same  fortunate  influences,  he  would 
have  proved  a  greater  rival  than  we  are  told  that 
great  actor  found  in  Barry. 

While  producing  the  most  brilliant  and  thrill- 
ing effects  in  dramatic  action,  Booth  seemed  to 
be  totally  ignorant  or  independent  of  mere  stage- 
business,  and  entirely  regardless  of  the  accesso- 
ries of  the  stage — matters  which  modern  actors 
consider  of  paramount  importance. 

Booth  seemed  to  have  taken  for  his  model  the 
elder  Kean,  and  yet  could  not  be  said  to  have 
imitated  him.  They  were  both  men  of  the  most 
intense  and  impassioned  nature,  of  poetic  tem- 
perament, and  easily  excited  to  the  action  of  the 
play,  and,  when  fully  aroused,  capable  of  the  most 
fiery  and  vehement  power  of  expressive  utter- 
ance. They  were  alike  gifted  with  voices  of 
subtle  and  incisive  qualities,  capacious  of  every 
form  of  expression,  from  the  smothered  whisper 
of  tremulous  fear  and  the  piercing  shriek  of  phys- 
ical suffering  to  the  boldest  volume  of  authorita- 
tive command  and  the  hollow,  sepulchral  sound 
of  profound  awe  or  suppressed  agony. 

With  regard  to  Kean,  it  may  be  said  that  he 
was  very  prone  to  the  use  of  an  aspirated  and 
guttural  quality  of  voice,  by  which  unpleasing 
trait  the  naturally  sonorous  character  of  his  tones 
was  obscured  and  impaired.  The  same  thing 


BOOTH'S  ELOCUTIONARY  SKILL.  177 

could  not  be  said  of  Booth's  vocal  ability,  for, 
though  using  the  aspirated  quality  with  great 
power  and  effect  in  the  utterance  of  malign  pas- 
sions, it  was  never  obtruded  upon  or  mixed  with 
the  rich  effects  of  his  tones  in  the  expression  of 
the  more  elevated  and  ennobling  sentiments  of 
his  author.  He  certainly  was  the  most  natural 
of  all  the  actors  in  his  delineations,  while  he 
excelled  all  his  contemporaries  (save  the  elder 
Kean)  in  the  vivid  intensity  of  his  emotional  ex- 
pression. 

The  acting  of  Booth  was  characterized  by  a 
strictly  austere  method,  so  far  as  it  related  to 
the  requirements  of  vocal  delineation,  to  which 
the  mere  physical  qualities  were  always  subordi- 
nated. His  author  never  suffered  at  his  hands, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  the  soul  of  language,  it 
might  be  said,  poured  forth  with  an  affluent  rich- 
ness, reminding  one  of  the  pictured  ideal  of  elo- 
quence expressed  by  the  painter  in  ancient  times, 
where  streams  of  amber  were  portrayed  as  flow- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  the  orator  into  the  de- 
lighted ears  of  the  entranced  listeners.  The 
most  irregular  forms  of  verse  in  obedience  to 

o 

Booth's  elocutionary  skill  became  smooth  and 
musical  as  the  hum  of  the  bees  of  Hymettus. 
In  this  respect  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  vast- 
ly superior  to  the  elder  Kean,  whose  utterances, 
aside  from  those  of  a  purely  pathetic  nature, 
were  too  often  marked  by  a  ruggedness  of  qual- 
ity and  an  apparently  intentional  rapidity,  more 
especially  in  that  portion  of  his  lines  which  he 

M 


178  KEAN'S  VOCAL   FIREWORKS. 

deemed  of  an  unimportant  character,  and  which 
he  purposely  subordinated  to  the  brilliant  flashes 
of  an  almost  magical  intensity  in  the  outbursts 
of  favorite  points. 

By  such  prepared  and  masterly  effects,  care- 
fully considered  and  skilfully  executed,  did  Kean 
carry  the  feelings  of  his  auditors  by  storm,  and, 
as  it  has  been  said  by  his  contemporaries,  "by 
volcanic  eruptions  of  frenzied  passion  hold  them 
spellbound  in  rage  or  revenge,  or  overwhelmed 
with  floods  of  pathos  and  tenderness."  After 
such  an  histrionic  triumph  the  impassioned  actor 
would  subside  into  an  almost  reckless  state  of 
slovenly  indifference  until  again  aroused  to  an- 
other point-making  effort. 

From  such  a  view  of  his  dramatic  powers  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that  Kean's  style,  while  it  was 
calculated  to  dazzle  the  intellectual  perceptions  of 
the  beholder,  certainly  did  not  tend  to  illuminate 
the  language  of  Shakespeare  in  the  integrity  of 
its  unbroken  excellence  as  a  finished  whole. 

It  must  be  conceded  that  the  tragic  power  of 
our  "American  Garrick,"  as  Dr.  Rush  called 
Booth,  did  not  suffer  in  comparison  with  the 
delineative  "identity"*  which  was  claimed,  by 

*  Among  English  actors  of  the  school  of  "  identity,"  as  it  is  termed, 
the  word  "  abandon "  was  used  to  express  an  earnest  taking  on  of  the 
"  spirit "  of  the  part,  after  the  manner  of  Kean.  The  head  of  an  old  the- 
atrical family,  speaking  of  this  specialty,  said,  "  We  are  all  noted  for  our 
'  abandon.'  My  wife,  as  the  profession  knows,  is  remarkable  for  it,  and 
my  daughter  (referring  to  a  popular  actress)  has  it  in  an  astonishing 
degree;  but  then,  you  know,  she  gets  her  abandon  naturally  from  her 
mother."  The  double  meaning  of  the  word  never  struck  the  old  gen- 
tleman, or  he  would  no  doubt  have  used  some  other  term. 


ABSENCE   OF   TRICKERY  IN  BOOTH.         179 

Kean's  admirers,  as  his  great  and  distinctive  ex- 
cellence. The  manner  of  Booth  was  noted  for 
a  consistent  and  beautifully  graduated  order  of 
vocal  effects,  where  the  most  brilliant  and  start- 
ling results  were  attained  in  a  perfectly  legitimate 
method  of  treating  the  so-considered  subordinate 
parts  of  the  language  with  a  just  regard  to  their 
proper  value,  while  employing  them  as  the  "  sul- 
len and  base  ground  "  upon  which  to  exhibit  those 
sublime  culminations  of  speech  which  have  won 
for  the  actor  and  the  orator  in  all  times  the  hon- 
ors paid  to  genius  and  perfected  art. 

While  possessing  and  wielding  the  greatest 
intellectual  power  in  dramatic  action,  there  was, 
as  I  have  before  said,  a  total  absence  of  mere 
stage-effect  or  professional  trickery  in  Booth's 
acting.  His  was  "  the  art  which  concealed  the 
art."  His  acting,  while  exciting  the  most  thrill- 
ing sensations  of  sympathetic  fervor  and  delight, 
never  suggested  a  thought  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  actor  produced  them,  and  yet  he  left 
the  impression  of  artistic  excellence  in  all  the 
requirements  of  soul  and  intellect. 

I  may  here  remark  that  Kean's  was  the  re- 
verse of  this.  Language  was  to  him,  in  a  great 
measure,  only  a  means  to  what  he  considered 
the  great  end  of  stage-effect  in  expression,  bod- 
ily action,  and  dramatic  situation. 

In  proof  of  the  fact  that  Booth  did  not  con- 
sider himself  an  imitator  of  Kean,  and  also  of 
what  I  have  said  regarding  his  wonderful  re- 
sources of  vocal  variety  and  power, — as  proof, 


1 80  BOOTH'S  ECCENTRIC  HABITS. 

I  say,  of  these  facts,  Mr.  Booth  while  acting  in 
the  theatres  of  Virginia,  where  he  made  his  first 
engagements  with  American  managers,  used  to 
act  Richard  one  night  in  his  own  style,  and  the 
next  in  that  of  Mr.  Kean ;  each  of  which  per- 
formances, I  have  been  told,  was  marked  with 
individual  traits  of  extraordinary  genius.  The 
perfect  mastery  with  which  he  treated  the 
personal  manner  of  Kean's  acting,  while  he 
exhibited  his  own  in  distinctive  contrast,  settled 
the  question  (on  this  side  of  the  water  at  least) 
concerning  Booth's  imitation,  while  it  established 
him  as  the  peer  of  Edmund  Kean. 

Of  all  the  men  with  whom  my  professional 
duties  made  me  acquainted,  no  one  perhaps  im- 
pressed me  so  strongly  as  the  elder  Booth.  There 
was  something  peculiar  about  him  that  acted  like 
a  charm,  and  commanded  the  respect  and  won  the 
esteem  of  all  whose  advances  he  encouraged;  but 
he  was,  nevertheless,  generally  undemonstrative 
and  shy.  Such  was  the  impression  Mr.  Booth 
made  upon  me  and  left  in  my  memory,  although 
unable,  in  any  respect,  to  approve  of  his  eccentric 
habits,  which  are  familiar  to  the  public. 

A  morbid  tendency  of  feeling,  which  gave  rise 
to  wild  and  defiant  moods,  led  him,  at  times,  to 
things  at  variance  with  the  conventionalities  of 
society  and  entirely  opposed  to  his  well-known 
gentlemanly  character;  and  these  eccentricities 
caused  coldness  and  reserve  both  with  himself 
and  his  friends.  But  when  the  "cloud"  passed 
and  his  true  nature  asserted  itself,  Booth  was 


HIS  SIR   EDWARD   MORTIMER.  l8l 

capable  of  winning  the  love  of  many  and  the 
esteem  of  all. 

His  literary  tastes  and  abilities  were  of  a  high 
order,  while  his  mental  qualities  were  remarkable 
for  clearness  and  range.  I  remember  the  first 
time  I  was  brought  into  direct  contact  with  the 
magnetic  influence  by  which  he  ruled  the  dramatic 
scene  and  swayed  his  audience.  I  was  quite  a 
lad,  and  had  not  been  on  the  stage  more  than  a 
year  or  two,  when  I  was  selected  to  play  Wilford 
to  his  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  for  the  first  time. 
Booth's  face,  before  he  met  with  the  accident 
which  disfigured  his  nose,  was  of  surpassing 
beauty,  and,  speaking  in  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm, 
to  my  mind's  eye  it  always  realized  the  ideal 
grandeur  represented  in  Hamlet's  lines : 

See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow : 
Hyperion's  curls;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command. 

Such  was  the  impression  made  on  my  youthful 
mind  in  gazing  for  the  first  time  on  Booth's  fea- 
tures when  dressed  for  Sir  Edward  Mortimer. 
The  sweetness  of  a  settled  melancholy  was  in  his 
face,  while  his  large,  lustrous  eye  was  full  of 
gentle  tenderness.  But  I  was  destined  to  see 
that  face  and  eye  in  a  different  light,  and  to  real- 
ize a  very  different  feeling  from  that  of  quiet 
admiration. 

On  the  morning  of  the  rehearsal  I  found  the 
great  tragedian  pleasant  and  communicative,  and, 
as  I  was  anxious  to  learn  the  business  of  the 

16 


1 82  MORTIMER  AND   WILFORD. 

scene  and  to  execute  it  to  the  satisfaction  of  my 
superior,  I  was  attentive  and  deeply  interested. 

My  readers  will  call  to  mind  the  relations  of 
Sir  Edward  Mortimer  and  his  young  secretary. 
The  latter  was  taken  from  an  inferior  position  in 
life  and  elevated  to  the  confidence  and  friendship 
of  his  patron,  over  whom  hung — that  fascination 
to  the  young — a  profound  mystery.  With  that 
mystery  was  connected  an  iron  chest  which  Sir 
Edward  was  known  to  visit  often,  and  always 
alone,  returning  from  such  visits  with  evident 
marks  of  the  deepest  agitation. 

One  day  Wilford,  being  engaged  in  the  se- 
cluded apartment  where  the  chest  was  kept,  with 
surprise  observed  that  the  key  was  in  the  lock. 
After  overcoming  honest  scruples  in  a  long 
struggle  with  fatal  curiosity,  he  knelt  before  the 
mysterious  chest  and  turned  the  key ;  then,  hesi- 
tating for  a  moment,  he  searched  the  apartment 
in  order  to  be  satisfied  that  he  was  secure  from 
observation.  Now  the  stage-business  which  Mr. 
Booth  was  so  particular  in  teaching  me  was  this : 
I  was  enjoined  to  take  time,  and  after  a  careful 
survey  of  the  premises  to  kneel  on  one  knee, 
place  my  left  hand  on  the  lid  of  the  chest,  then, 
gently  raising  it,  to  hold  it  back,  and,  looking 
closely  in,  to  place  my  right  hand  on  the  papers 
which  it  contained,  turning  them  over  as  if  seek- 
ing for  something  hidden  beneath.  The  strictest 
injunction  was  given  to  pay  no  attention  to  what 
was  to  follow  on  the  part  of  Sir  Edward,  no 
matter  how  long  the  suspense  might  last,  but 


BOOTH'S  REALITY  IN  ACTING.  183 

when  I  felt  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  to  turn 
abruptly,  letting  the  lid  of  the  chest  fall  with  a 
slam,  and,  still  on  my  knee,  hold  a  firm  attitude 
till  I  was  warned  by  a  sudden  pressure  of  Mr. 
Booth's  hand  to  rise  to  my  feet  and  stand  before 
him. 

On  the  night  of  the  performance  I  was  nervous 
and  ill  at  ease  from  the  want  of  a  firm  and  as- 
sured hold  upon  the  words  of  my  part,  which  I 
had  mastered  at  short  notice  and  with  more 
attention  to  the  sense  than  to  special  expression. 
However,  I  contrived  to  keep  up  with  the  action 
of  the  play.  At  length  I  found  myself  in  the 
presence  of  the  mysterious  chest.  I  was  almost 
breathless  with  excitement  and  from  anxiety  con- 
sequent on  my  strong  desire  to  execute  Mr. 
Booth's  orders  to  the  very  letter.  I  had  pro- 
ceeded so  far  as  to  open  the  chest,  and,  stooping 
over  the  papers,  awaited  trembling,  on  my  knee, 
the  appointed  signal  for  action.  The  time  seemed 
an  eternity,  but  it  came  at  last.  The  heavy  hand 
fell  on  my  shoulder.  I  turned,  and  there,  with 
the  pistol  held  to  my  head,  stood  Booth,  glaring 
like  an  infuriated  demon.  Then  for  the  first  time 
I  comprehended  the  reality  of  acting.  The  fury 
of  that  passion-flamed  face  and  the  magnetism 
of  the  rigid  clutch  upon  my  arm  paralyzed  my 
muscles,  while  the  scintillating  gleam  of  the  ter- 
rible eyes,  like  the  green  and  red  flashes  of  an 
enraged  serpent,  fascinated  and  fixed  me  spell- 
bound to  the  spot.  A  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
caused  me  to  spring  from  my  knees,  but,  bewil- 


184  THE   KINDNESS   OF  BOOTH. 

dered  with  fright  and  a  choking  sensation  of 
undefined  dread,  I  fell  heavily  to  the  stage,  trip- 
ping Mr.  Booth,  who  still  clutched  my  shoulder. 
I  brought  him  down  with  me,  and  for  a  moment 
we  lay  prostrate.  But  suddenly  recovering  him- 
self, he  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  almost  super- 
human strength  dragging  me  up,  as  I  clung  to 
his  arm  in  terror.  Shaking  himself  free  of  my 
grasp,  I  sank  down  again  stunned  and  helpless. 
I  was  aroused  to  consciousness,  however,  by  a 
voice  calling  on  me,  in  suppressed  accents,  to 
rise,  and  then  became  aware  that  Mr.  Booth 
was  kneeling  at  my  side.  He  helped  me  to  my 
feet,  whispering  in  my  ear  a  few  encouraging 
words,  and  then  dexterously  managed,  in  spite 
of  the  accident  and  my  total  inability  to  speak, 
to  continue  the  scene  to  its  close. 

Thus  was  I,  an  unfortunate  tyro,  saved  from 
disgrace  by  the  coolness  and  kindness  of  one 
who  had  every  reason  to  be  moved  by  a  very 
different  state  of  mind ;  for  it  was  evident  that, 
but  for  the  actor's  readiness  and  skill  in  impro- 
vising the  business  of  the  stage,  one  of  the  most 
important  and  interesting  scenes  of  the  play 
would  have  proved  a  mortifying  failure.  The 
kindness  of  the  act  was  its  own  reward,  for  my 
present  recollection  is  that  the  audience  never 
evinced  the  slightest  indication  of  the  presence 
of  a  disturbing  element,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
gave  evidence  of  their  satisfaction  by  applause 
at  the  critical  moment  to  which  I  have  alluded. 

In  more  than  one  way  Booth  was  a  true  poetic 


HIS  ARDOR    OF  EXPRESSION.  185 

genius  and  dramatic  artist.  He  always  seemed 
to  grasp  the  ideal  beauty  and  intellectual  power 
of  the  poet's  thought,  and  worked  out,  from  the 
author's  language,  the  full  force  of  the  emotion 
or  passion  which  was  the  root  of  its  mental 
growth.  Thus  mastering  the  intent  and  purpose 
of  the  words,  he  invested  their  utterance  with  the 
graceful  foliage  or  the  more  vigorous  strength 
of  branch  and  limb  from  the  power  of  his  varied 
and  wonderful  forms  of  expression.  This  he 
seemed  to  do  apparently  with  so  much  real  en- 
joyment of  the  poet's  innermost  feelings  that  the 
fervor  of  a  gratified  sense  seized  upon  his  hear- 
ers, and  established  a  congenial  and  sympathetic 
communion  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  actor. 

This  peculiar  kind  of  radiated  and  reflected 
ardor  of  expression  was  conspicuously  exempli- 
fied in  the  glow  and  vigor  and  sonorous  round- 
ness of  Booth's  voice  in  his  utterance  of  the 
words  of  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  in  the  following 
scene : 

Library.      SIR  EDWARD   discovered  at   the  writing-table. 
ADAM  WINTERTON  attending. 

SIR  EDWARD. 

Well  bethought ;  send  Walter  to  me. 
I  would  employ  him  ;  he  must  ride  for  me 
On  business  of  much  import. 

WINTERTON. 

Lackaday  !  that  it  should- chance  so  !     I  have  sent  him  forth 
To  Winchester,  to  buy  me  flannel  hose, 

For  winter's  coming  on.     Good  lack  !  that  things  should  fall 
so  crossly  ! 

18* 


1 86  SCENE  FROM  "THE  IRON  CHEST." 

SIR  EDWARD. 

Nay,  nay,  do  not  fret ; 

'Tis  better  that  my  business  cool,  good  Adam, 

Than  thy  old  limbs. 

Is  Wilford  waiting  ? 

WlNTERTON. 

He  is— 
Here  in  the  hall,  sir. 

SIR  EDWARD. 
Send  him  in. 

WlNTERTON. 

I  shall,  sir.     Heaven  bless  you  !  Heaven  bless  you !        \Exit. 

SIR  EDWARD. 

Good-morning,  good  old  heart. 

This  honest  soul 

Would  fain  look  cheery  in  my  house's  gloom, 

And,  like  a  gay  and  sturdy  evergreen, 

Smiles  in  the  midst  of  blast  and  desolation, 

Where  all  around  him  withers. 

Well!  well!  wither, 

Perish,  this  frail  and  fickle  frame,  this  clay, 

That  in  its  dross-like  compound  doth  contain 

The  mind's  pure  ore  and  essence  !     Oh  that  mind, 

That  mind  of  man  !  that  godlike  spring  of  action  ! 

That  source  whence  learning,  virtue,  honor,  flow ! 

Which  lifts  us  to  the  stars,  which  carries  us 

O'er  the  swell' n  waters  of  the  angry  deep, 

As  swallows  skim  the  air ! — that  fame's  sole  fountain, 

That  doth  transmit  a  fair  and  spotless  name 

When  the  vile  trunk  is  rotten  !     Give  me  that ! 

Oh  give  me  but  to  live  in  after  age 

Remembered  and  unsullied  !     Heaven  and  earth  ! 

Let  my  pure  flame  of  honor  shine  in  ^tory 

When  I  am  cold  in  death,  and  the  slow  fire 

That  wears  my  vitals  now  will  no  more  move  me 

Than  would  a  corpse  within  a  monument ! 


BOOTH  AS  RICHARD    THE   THIRD.          1 87 

Books !  books ! 

(My  only  commerce  now)  will  sometimes  rouse  me 

Beyond  my  nature  ;  I  have  been  so  warmed, 

So  heated,  by  a  well-turned  rhapsody, 

That  I  have  seemed  the  hero  of  the  tale 

So  glowingly  described.     Draw  me  a  man 

Struggling  for  fame,  attaining,  keeping  it, 

Dead  ages  since,  and  the  historian 

Decking  his  memory  in  polished  phrase, 

And  I  can  follow  him  through  every  turn, 

Grow  wild  in  his  exploits,  myself  himself, 

Until  the  thick  pulsation  of  my  heart 

Wakes  me  to  ponder  on  the  thing  I  am. 

The  first  time  I  heard  him  deliver  this  passage 
I  remember  that  he  impressed  me  with  a  realiz- 
ing sense  of  what  a  delightful  state  of  unalloyed 
pleasure  that  reader  was  capable  of  enjoying  who 
could  in  his  communion  with  the  words  of  the 
dead  past  conjure  up  their  intellectual  power  at 
will  and  mingle  his  own  senses  with  the  very 
atmosphere  of  mental  beauty  and  truth. 

Again,  in  his  performance  of  Richard  the 
Third,  after  giving  utterance  to  the  language  of 
the  author  in  tones  of  mingled  softness  and  sub- 
tlety, expressive  of  the  opposite  states  of  tender 
passion  and  crafty  cruelty,  he  would  take  a  bolder 
flight,  and,  assuming  the  aspect  of  the  frowning 
and  fiery  Mars,  with  his  soul  in  arms  and  eager 
for  the  fray,  showed  himself  able  to  conjure  up 
within  the  deep  cells  of  innermost  feeling  a  true 
conception  and  embodiment  of  the  chivalry  and 
glory  of  the  warrior-soul. 

Though  small  in  size,  and  never  well  equipped 


1 88  A    TRUE  SHAKESPEARIAN  ACTOR. 

in  the  external  vestments  of  royalty  (for  he  was 
what  is  termed  in  the  profession  "a  bad  dresser"), 
he  exhibited  the  true  lineaments  of  martial  valor 
and  majestic  heroism,  which  were  far  beyond  the 
meretricious  adornments  of  the  costumer.  It  was 
then  that,  under  the  inspiration  of  an  intuitive 
Shakespearian  conception,  he  was  able  to  infuse 
into  the  language,  not  the  dead  form  of  tradi- 
tional dramatic  utterance,  but  the  soul  itself  of 
vital  passion ;  and  the  minds  of  the  excited  spec- 
tators beheld  not  only  the  true  semblance  of  a 
kingly  warrior,  but  in  the  play  of  their  imagina- 
tion realized  the  spirit,  if  not  the  bodily  presence, 
of  embattled  hosts.  Though  they  might,  outside 
the  magic  circle,  forget  the  illusion  of  the  scene 
and  call  to  mind  the  realities  of  the  faded  tin- 
sel of  the  stage,  and  look  upon  the  pasteboard 
defences  of  the  supernumeraries  rather  as  the  fit- 
ting vesture  of  FalstafPs  ragged  regiment,  yet,  in 
spite  of  such  belittling  recollections,  they  could 
not  soon  forget  the  startling  effects  of  the  poetry 
of  war  as  depicted  by  the  actor  and  made  real 
by  his  presence  and  his  voice.* 

Some  time  after  the  performance  of  The  Iron 
Chest  before  referred  to,  in  a  quarrel  with  a 
brother-performer,  who  under  intense  excitement 

*  Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  Mr.  Charles  Kean  got  up  (as  it  is 
termed)  Richard  the  Third  at  a  cost  of  some  thousands  of  dollars  at  the 
Park  Theatre,  New  York.  One  night,  while  in  the  green-room,  he  said 
to  his  wife,  "  My  dear  Ellen,  these  costly  equipments,  after  all,  are  de- 
structive of  the  actor's  vocation ;  the  people  are  so  engrossed  with  look- 
ing at  the  scenery  and  dresses  that  they  have  no  time  to  think  of  the 
acting.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  on  the  stage  and  off 
again." 


VANDENHOFF    THE  ELDER.  189 

struck  him  with  a  heavy  blunt  weapon,  Booth's 
nose  (naturally  prominent  and  exquisitely  form- 
ed) was  broken  and  dreadfully  disfigured,  thereby 
for  a  time  materially  affecting  his  voice  in  its 
sonorous  purity.  With  many,  such  an  obstruc- 
tion would  have  proved  an  impassable  barrier  to 
further  progress  in  the  profession.  But  Booth, 
who  was  as  familiar  with  physiological  as  with 
intellectual  matters,  proceeded  at  once  to  over- 
come the  impediment  by  a  special  discipline  of 
the  functions  of  the  vocal  mechanism,  and,  finally 
conquering  the  difficulty,  restored  the  facial  organ 
to  its  original  capacity  for  producing  its  peculiar 
sounds.  There  was,  however,  in  his  restored  vocal- 
ity  a  more  than  usual  nasal  quality,  though  not 
enough  to  mar  the  resonant  breadth  and  firmness 
of  his  voice,  or  the  musical  ring  which  made  it  in 
its  cadences  an  exposition  of  the  pensive  sounds 
which  Collins  tells  us  Melancholy  "poured  through 
the  mellow  horn,"  or  those  opposite  tones,  so 
"loud  and  dread,"  blown  from  "the  war-denoun- 
cing trumpet"  by  the  spirit  of  Revenge. 

VANDENHOFF. 

Mr.  Vandenhoff  the  Elder  (the  father  of  George 
Vandenhoff,  the  eminent  actor  and  elocutionist) 
was  in  all  probability  the  finest  tragedian  of  the 
classic  school  of  acting  ever  seen  on  the  Amer- 
ican stage.  He  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman  of 
refined  manners,  as  well  as  a  great  actor.  I  saw 
him  first  in  Coriolanus,  when  he  impressed  me  as 
the  true  ideal  of  the  Roman  character  more  thor- 


VANDENHOFF' S  IMPERSONATIONS. 

oughly  than  any  actor  I  had  ever  seen.  The 
proud  patrician  himself  could  not,  in  my  mind, 
have  had  a  more  lordly  and  warrior-like  bearing 
than  Vandenhoff  imparted  to  Shakespeare's  Ro- 
man hero.  There  was  a  sharp  ring  in  his  voice 
and  an  incisive  stroke  in  his  utterance  of  com- 
mand and  rebuke  that  rung  the  words  like  a  shot, 
energizing  every  sentence,  leaving  nothing  uncer- 
tain to  the  understanding,  the  feeling,  or  the  ear; 
while  in  his  declamatory  or  deeply  contemplative 
tones  there  were  the  stately  pace  of  quantity  and 
the  measured  flow  of  rhythm,  which  gave  to  his 
recitations  a  grace  and  dignity  fully  equal  to  all 
the  requirements  of  the  Tragic  Muse. 

His  Cato  was  a  revelation  to  the  young  Amer- 
ican actor  of  a  half  century  ago  in  fine  elocution 
and  courtly  manners.  If  John  Philip  Kemble  was 
a  more  perfect  Cato  than  Vandenhoff,  then  was 
Kemble  a  greater  actor  than  even  his  storied 
record  makes  him  appear.  Bulwer's  Richelieu, 
as  impersonated  by  Vandenhoff,  was  not  only  the 
crafty  statesman,  but,  what  no  other  actor  ever 
made  him,  so  far  as  my  impressions  are  concerned, 
the  proud,  haughty,  imperious  churchman.  The 
very  impress  of  the  Vatican  marked  his  bearing 
in  both  voice  and  action.  When  he  drew  "the 
awful  circle  of  our  solemn  Church,"  and  threat- 
ened even  the  crowned  king  who  should  violate 
its  sanctity  with  the  scathing  fire  of  Rome's  dread 
curse,  the  effect  was  exceedingly  impressive.  It 
was  not  the  too  common  exhibition  of  an  actor's 
personal  denunciation  worked  to  a  climax  of  in- 


A    SCENE  BEHIND    THE    CURTAIN. 

tensity  to  produce  a  professional  effect.  In  Van- 
denhoff you  beheld  the  embodiment  of  the  power 
of  Rome,  and  in  his  voice  of  solemn  earnestness 
and  conscious  dignity  you  felt  what  would  be  the 
fatal  consequence  of  braving  the  mandates  of  the 
supreme  head  of  the  Church. 

Mr.  Vandenhoff  was  playing  an  engagement 
at  the  old  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia, 
about  1838,  during  which  his  performance  of 
Macbeth  was  accompanied  with  a  scene  behind 
the  curtain  quite  dramatic  in  its  character,  but 
not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  tragedy. 

The  second  act  was  on,  and  Mr.  Vandenhoff, 
after  speaking  the  dagger  soliloquy,  had  made 
his  exit  to  perform  the  deed  which  was  "  to  make 
the  very  stones  prate  of  his  whereabouts." 

In  the  way  of  explanation  I  will  here  state  that 
when  Macbeth  passes  through  the  stage-door  of 
the  apartment  of  the  "  sleeping  king "  to  perpe- 
trate the  murder,  he  enters  a  kind  of  corner  box 
in  which  the  prompter  stands.  It  is  enclosed  by 
a  frame  on  hinges,  and  can  be  enlarged  at  pleas- 
ure. Now,  in  this  space  the  "property-man,"  as 
he  is  termed,  places  for  the  use  of  Macbeth  a 
small  table  on  which  are  a  looking-glass,  lighted 
candles,  and  a  towel,  together  with  chalk  to  give 
a  pallid  hue  to  the  face,  and  a  pot  of  liquid  red 
coloring-matter  to  smear  the  hands  and  daggers 
of  the  murderer. 

Mr.  Vandenhoff,  as  I  have  said,  had  made  his 
exit  from  the  stage,  and  Lady  Macbeth  had  en- 
tered and  was  making  her  speech,  while  her  con- 


192  AN  IMPORTUNATE  VISITOR. 

sort  was  busily  employed,  as  is  the  custom,  in 
putting  his  hair  in  disorder  and  reducing  the  color 
of  his  cheeks  to  the  proper  pallor  before  reap- 
pearing on  the  scene.  At  this  interesting  moment 
a  gentleman  who  had  insisted  on  seeing  the  tra- 
gedian on  important  business,  in  spite  of  the 
doorkeeper's  efforts  to  restrain  him,  had  made 
his  way  to  the  box  I  have  described,  and,  pushing 
open  the  door,  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  murderous  thane,  who  was  holding  in  his 
blood-stained  grasp  the  daggers,  on  which,  brush 
in  hand,  an  attendant  was  splashing  the  san- 
guineous fluid.  The  reader  may  imagine  the  state 
of  the  case  as  the  two  men  stood  staring  at  each 
other  in  mutual  surprise. 

"  Mr.  Vandenhoff,"  said  the  bewildered  visitor, 
"the  Sons  of  St.  George  desire — " 

Here  the  actor,  retaining  his  attitude  and  fetch- 
ing his  breath  in  gasps  and  sobs,  so  that  he  might 
develop  the  •  excited  state  of  feeling  proper  to  the 
deed  of  blood  he  had  just  committed,  exclaimed 
in  husky,  suppressed  tones,  "  Mr.  Tarns,  I  am 
astonished  that  you  should — " 

Here  broke  in  the  visitor  with,  "  Mr.  Vanden- 
hoff, the  Sons  of  St.  George — " 

Then  the  excited  tragedian  :  "  Sir,  you  must  see 
that  I —  More  blood,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Wards," 
holding  out  his  daggers  to  the  attendant. 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Tarns,  "you  promised  to  re- 
turn—" 

Macbeth  was  now  striking  out  with  his  daggers, 
as  if  still  stabbing  the  old  king,  and  in  close  prox- 


"/  HAVE  DONE    THE  DEED  T  1 93 

imity  to  the  person  of  Mr.  Tams,  speaking  all  the 
time  with  increased  vehemence,  though  in  sup- 
pressed tones :  "  Don't  you  see,  sir,  that  I  cannot, 
sir—" 

Just  then  the  cue  was  heard,  and,  dashing  on 
the  stage,  Macbeth,  as  he  struck  his  attitude,  cried 
out  in  all  the  terror  of  conscious  guilt, 

I  have  done  the  deed ! 
Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
17  N 


CHAPTER   X. 

MISS  DECAMP.— INCIDENTS  AND  ANECDOTES  OF 
THE  DECAMP  AND   KEMBLE  FAMILIES. 

HTHE  London  Monthly  Mirror  (1801)  says: 
-*-  "  There  are  among  the  profession  many  em- 
inent characters  whose  private  conduct  reflects 
honor  on  their  public  station.  Of  such  no  one 
is  more  worthy  both  of  praise  and  imitation  than 
the  lady  whose  name  adorns  the  head  of  this 
article. 

"  Miss  DeCamp  was  born  at  Vienna  on  the 
1 7th  of  January,  1774;  her  father,  George  Louis 
DeCamp,  was  a  gentleman  of  considerable  esti- 
mation as  a  musician.  His  real  name,  however, 
was  De  Fleury,  and  he  was  descended  from  the 
younger  branch  of  that  family  in  France.  Allured 
by  the  prospect  of  patronage  which  had  been 
promised  him  by  several  English  noblemen  then 
resident  abroad,  he  quitted  Germany  for  England, 
where,  although  his  great  merits  were  acknow- 
ledged, yet  his  modesty  and  unassuming  diffi- 
dence, too  often  the  attendants  on  extraordinary 
talents,  were  an  unfortunate  bar  to  his  success. 

"  Miss  DeCamp,  at  the  age  of  six  years,  was 
retained  at  the  opera-house  as  one  of  the  Cupid- 
ons  of  Novarre's  ballets ;  from  thence  she  trans- 

194 


MISS  DECAMP  IN   THE  BALLET.  195 

ferred  her  juvenile  exertions  to  the  elegant  the- 
atre of  Monsieur  le  Texier,  where  she  performed, 
at  the  age  of  only  eight  years,  the  character  of 
Zelie  in  La  Comedie  de  la  Calombe,  written  by 
the  celebrated  Countess  de  Genlis.  Here  Miss 
DeCamp  met  with  particular  notice  and  patron- 
age, and  from  this  period  we  may  date  the  com- 
mencement of  that  distinguished  esteem  and 
patronage,  from  persons  of  the  first  fashion  in 
this  country,  which,  to  her  honor,  she  retains  to 
this  hour. 

"The  Prince  of  Wales,  who  had  not  unfre- 
quently  witnessed  her  youthful  performances,  dis- 
covered her  extraordinary  merit,  which  seemed 
to  promise  a  more  profitable  display  on  a  stage 
of  higher  attraction.  His  Royal  Highness  recom- 
mended our  heroine  to  Mr.  Colman,  Sr.,  as  a 
young  lady  who  might  improve  her  own  taste  in 
the  theatre  of  the  Haymarket,  and  at  the  same 
time  render  a  service  to  his  management  by 
assisting  in  the  ballets  and  other  novelties  that 
might  be  produced  in  the  course  of  the  summer 
seasons.  Miss  DeCamp  was  accordingly  engaged 
by  that  gentleman,  and  appeared  for  the  first  time 
on  that  stage  in  a  little  dance  under  the  title  of 
Jamie  s  Return,  with  the  young  D'Egville. 

"At  the  end  of  the  Haymarket  season  Mr. 
King,  the  then  acting  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  tendered  her  an  engagement  of  supe- 
rior advantage,  both  as  to  profit  and  opportunity 
of  appearing  before  the  public. 

"  Her  father's  disappointments  in  this  country 


196  MISS  DECAMP  AS  AN^ACTRESS. 

had  made  him  resolve  to  return  to  Germany ;  he 
had  therefore  neglected  to  instruct  Miss  DeCamp 
in  a  language  which  he  considered  would  never 
turn  to  any  account  than  as  a  mere  accomplish- 
ment ;  so  that  when  he  died,  leaving  a  wife  and 
several  children,  our  heroine,  the  eldest,  and  then 
only  twelve  years  old,  had  not  even  learned  to 
read  English,  the  little  characters  in  which  she  had 
acquired  so  much  applause,  such  as  the  Page  in 
The  Orphan,  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  Richard  the 
Third,  etc.  etc.,  having  been  taught  her  by  mere 
dint  of  repetition.  By  the  death  of  her  father 
having  lost  all  hope  of  support  except  that  which 
might  result  from  her  own  labor,  and  having  uni- 
formly detested  the  idea  of  being  anything  but  an 
actress,  she  determined  by  industry  to  make  up 
the  deficiency  of  an  early  education ;  and  those 
advantages  which  were  denied  her  by  the  narrow- 
ness of  her  circumstances  were  amply  compen- 
sated by  the  assistance  of  two  friends.  The 
Viscountess  Percival  taught  her  reading,  writing, 
and  arithmetic ;  and  the  accomplished  Miss  Bu- 
channan  instructed  her  in  music,  Italian,  and 
geography. 

"  Her  first  appearance  at  Drury  Lane  was  in 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  in  1786,  and,  by  her  per- 
formance of  the  part  of  Julie  she  contributed 
greatly  to  the  success  and  run  of  that  elegant 
entertainment. 

"As  Miss  DeCamp  increased  in  years  she 
gradually  disclosed  the  extent  of  those  talents 
with  which  Nature  and  education  have  so  un- 


SHE  APPEARS  IN  OPERA.        197 

commonly  gifted  her.  An  ear  naturally  correct, 
and  very  sedulous  application  to  the  science  of 
music,  recommended  her  to  a  singing  cast  of 
characters.  In  the  summer  season  of  1792,  Mr. 
Johnstone,  for  his  benefit  reversed  the  characters 
of  the  Beggar  s  Opera  by  way  of  procuring  an 
overflow  to  the  better  profit  of  the  actor.  Old 
Bannister  on  this  occasion  was  assigned  to  the 
tender  part  of  Polly,  Johnstone  to  Lucy,  and  the 
redoubtable  Macheath  was  undertaken  by  our 
heroine.  The  airs  were  given  in  a  manner  that 
obtained  reiterated  applause,  and  it  is  but  justice 
to  give  her  the  praise  of  having  executed  them 
with  peculiar  taste  and  science ;  and  as  for  the 
acting  of  the  character,  there  has  been  nothing 
near  it,  by  any  Macheath  before  or  since,  during 
the  recollection  of  the  writer  of  this  article.  Miss 
DeCamp  is  in  private  life  equally  the  object  of 
our  commendation  as  in  the  public  execution  of 
the  duties  of  her  profession,  her  filial  attention 
to  her  parent  and  her  family,  her  respectful 
acquiescence  with  their  wishes,  and  the  uniform 
gentleness  of  her  manners  and  disposition,  have 
gained  her  an  universal  reputation  for  amiable 
and  exemplary  conduct. 

"  Complete  in  all  the  elegant  accomplishments 
of  life,  Miss  DeCamp  seems  rather  formed  for 
the  endearing  offices  of  domestic  enjoyment  than 
the  bustle  of  a  profession  exposed  to  the  perpet- 
ual demands  of  a  captious  public  and  the  secret 
malevolence  of  professional  individuals." 

For  a  period  of  twenty  years  Miss   DeCamp 

17  * 


198  TAYLOR    ON  CHARLES  KEMBLE. 

had  made  her  name  famous  in  the  annals  of  the 
stage.  Mr.  Charles  Kemble  wooed  and  won 
the  lady,  making  her  his  wife  in  1806. 

Mrs.  Charles  Kemble  was  of  exceptional  ex- 
cellence in  sprightly  parts,  in  chambermaids,  and 
all  characters  where  pantomimic  action  was  need- 
ed. It  was  said  her  knowledge  of  stage-business 
was  perfect,  while  in  point  of  industry  no  one  ex- 
ceeded her. 

CHARLES   KEMBLE. 

Mr.  Charles  Kemble  made  his  first  appearance 
in  1792  as  Orlando  in  As  You  Like  It.  In  1820 
he  had  attained  the-  zenith  of  his  reputation.  Mr. 
John  Taylor  makes  the  following  notice : 

"  Mr.  Charles  Kemble,  who  now  appears  to  so 
much  advantage  on  the  stage,  when  he  was  rather 
a  fine  sturdy  lad  than  a  young  man  held  an 
appointment  in  a  government  office,  but  being 
anxious  to  go  upon  the  stage,  he  consulted  me 
on  the  subject.  I  confess  that,  though  he  was 
intelligent  and  well-educated,  there  was  such  a 
rustic  plainness  in  his  manner  that  I  did  not  see 
any  promise  of  excellence  in  him,  and  therefore 
advised  him  to  keep  to  his  situation,  which  was  a 
progressive  one,  from  which,  I  told  him,  in  due 
time  he  would  be  able  to  retire  on  a  comfortable 
independence.  He  told  me  that  his  brother  had 
expressed  the  same  opinion,  and  had  given  him 
the  same  advice.  Hence  it  appeared  that  Mr. 
Kemble  and  myself  were  bad  prophets,  since  his 
brother  Charles  has  displayed  abilities  which  would 


KEMBLE  AS  AN  ACTOR.  199 

have  done  honor  to  the  stage  at  any  period.  It 
may,  however,  be  said  that  Mr.  Kemble  perhaps 
saw  his  brother's  talents  with  eyes  more  discern- 
ing than  mine,  and  only  discouraged  his  theat- 
rical bent  from  a  conviction  of  the  difficulty  and 
uncertainty  of  the  profession. 

"  Mr.  Charles  Kemble  was  very  early  in  life 
placed  for  education  at  a  college  in  Douay,  from 
which  he  returned  with  a  competent  knowledge  of 
the  Latin  and  French  languages,  and  since  he 
has  been  an  established  performer  in  London 
he  has,  I  understand,  acquired  the  Italian  and 
German. 

"As  an  actor  he  is  a  worthy  successor  to  his 
brother,  particularly  in  the  part  of  Hamlet ;  and, 
to  say  the  least  of  his  performance,  in  a  just  con- 
ception of  the  author,  in  animation,  variety,  and 
energy,  he  must  satisfy  the  most  rigid  critic.  His 
deportment  in  general  is  easy  and  graceful,  with- 
out affectation,  but  naturally  flowing  from  his  feel- 
ings. His  Romeo  also  is  an  admirable  specimen 
of  tragic  skill.  But,  with  all  his  merit  in  tragedy, 
he  seems  to  be  more  in  his  element  in  comic  parts. 
His  Charles  in  The  School  for  Scandal  is  a  per- 
formance of  great  spirit  and  humor,  but  perhaps 
his  young  Mirabel  in  The  Inconstant  is  his  most 
perfect  personation.  His  Archer  in  the  comedy 
of  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  is  also  highly  creditable 
to  his  comic  powers,  and  he  has  shown  the  versa- 
tility of  his  talents  by  his  performance  of  Friar 
Tuck  and  Falstaff,  though  so  different  from  his 
proper  cast." 


200  MRS.    FRANCES  ANNE   KEMBLE. 

THE   DECAMP  AND   KEMBLE   FAMILIES. 

The  references  to  her  mother  in  Mrs.  Frances 
Anne  Kemble's  recent  book,  An  Old  Woman  s 
Gossip,  lead  to  the  inference  that  she  considers 
her  organization  to  have  more  affinity  with  her 
maternal  than  paternal  ancestry.  She  lays  much 
stress  upon  her  mother's  originality,  describing 
her  as  a  beautiful  woman  of  many  and  rare  ac- 
complishments and  possessed  of  a  vivacious  and 
independent  spirit,  unwilling  to  submit  to  profes- 
sional tradition  or  social  conventionalisms  when  at 
variance  with  her  own  sense  of  good  taste  and  pro- 
priety. In  the  picture  the  daughter  has  sketched 
of  the  mother  she  has  portrayed  many  of  her  own 
idiosyncrasies.  In  summing  up  she  affirms  that  in 
many  respects  her  mother  had  more  of  the  savage 
in  her  nature  than  of  the  ingredients  of  civiliza- 
tion ;  by  which  I  infer  a  leaning  to  the  picturesque 
side  of  the  gypsy  disposition.  I  was  strongly  im- 
pressed with  the  native  force  of  character  present- 
ed in  Mrs.  Kemble's  account  of  her  family  career. 
It  was  a  frank,  generous  avowal  of  her  opinion 
of  the  profession  of  which  her  parents  were  dis- 
tinguished members,  and  which  enabled  her  own 
brilliant  and  commanding  genius  to  attain  celeb- 
rity equalled  only  by  that  of  the  greatest  actress 
of  the  English  stage — her  aunt,  Mrs.  Siddons. 

Mrs.  Kemble  tells  us  her  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  Captain  DeCamp  of  the  French 
army — that  he  was  a  man  of  refined  manners 
and  cultivated  tastes  and  ability.  His  wife  was 


VINCENT  DECAMP.  2OI 

the  daughter  of  a  Swiss  farmer  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Berne.  A  victim  of  consumption,  he  was 
compelled  to  retire  from  the  army  and  seek  a  pre- 
carious living  as  a  teacher  of  music  and  draw- 
ing. His  life  was  eventful  and  brief:  a  hopeless 
invalid  for  several  years,  he  died  in  London,  leav- 
ing a  widow  with  a  family  of  three  daughters  and 
one  son.  The  eldest  daughter,  having  distin- 
guished herself  as  a  child-actress,  was  thus  pro- 
vided for.  But  the  poor  mother,  having  no  means 
for  educating  her  other  children,  applied  to  Mr. 
Roger  Kemble,  the  father  of  the  Kemble  family 
and  a  manager  of  several  provincial  theatres,  who 
gave  them  situations  in  his  company,  where  they 
remained  until  properly  prepared  to  assume  reg- 
ular positions  in  the  profession.  Mr.  Frederick 
F.  Brown,  a  young  actor  of  distinguished  ability, 
married  one  of  the  sisters,  while  a  third  remained 
single. 

VINCENT   DECAMP. 

Vincent  DeCamp,  the  son,  became  a  versatile 
actor  of  great  ability.  He  inherited  from  his 
father  a  chivalric  spirit  and  love  of  adventure, 
which,  joined  to  the  sterling  virtues  and  amiable 
disposition  derived  from  his  mother,  formed  the 
basis  of  his  character,  while  hardship  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  a  wandering  life  eventually  made 
him  an  excellent  and  efficient  manager. 

Mr.  DeCamp  married  a  dowager  lady  of  wealth 
much  older  than  himself.  Gay  and  reckless,  he 
was  a  great  favorite  in  the  theatrical  circles  of 


202  DECAMP* S   TRAGEDY  ACTING. 

Bath,  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  and  fashion- 
able provincial  towns  of  England.  During  his 
management  at  Bath  he  was  the  boon- companion 
of  many  distinguished  characters  of  the  heyday 
period  of  the  Prince  Regent  (afterward  George 
the  Fourth),  who  was  a  frequent  attendant  at  the 
theatre,  and  to  whom  the  elegant  young  actor 
was  not  personally  unknown.  Disagreement  be- 
tween himself  and  wife  finally  resulted  in  a  sep- 
aration, and  Mr.  DeCamp  came  to  the  United 
States  and  established  a  circuit  of  theatres  in 
Charleston  and  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  and 
Savannah  and  Augusta,  Georgia.  For  many 
years  he  was  prosperous  and  highly  respected. 
To  him  I  am  indebted  for  the  old-English-com- 
edy training  I  received  in  the  apprentice  days 
of  my  professional  career. 

DeCamp's  tragedy  acting  partook  of  the  dig- 
nified tone  of  the  Kemble  style,  while  his  com- 
edy was  of  the  courteous  and  sprightly  kind,  after 
the  manner  of  Elliston,  of  which  it  has  been  said 
that  it  was  neither  brisk  nor  languid,  but  a  happy 
medium  between  the  extremes  affected  by  many 
leading  performers  of  his  day.  DeCamp  was 
efficient  in  almost  every  department  of  the  drama 
— could  lead  an  orchestra  or  take  the  part  in  an 
opera,  spoke  French  and  Italian  fluently,  and 
danced  with  elegance;  while  in  fencing  he  could 
have  maintained  his  guard  against  the  foil  of  even 
an  "Admirable  Crichton."  In  private  life  Mr. 
DeCamp's  deportment  was  that  of  a  gentleman 
of  somewhat  eccentric  habits,  courteous  and  even 


MRS.    FREDERICK  BROWN.  203 

studiously  polite.  In  person  he  was  above  the 
medium  stature,  well-made  and  erect,  fine  classic 
features,  and  a  good  complexion  ;  in  brief,  he  wore 
at  sixty  all  the  healthy  appearance  of  a  man  of 
forty. 

MRS.  FREDERICK  BROWN. 

Mrs.  Frederick  Brown  was,  like  all  the  DeCamp 
family,  a  very  marked  character.  The  following 
quotation  from  An  Old  Woman's  Gossip  applies 
as  well  to  Mrs.  Brown  as  it  does  to  her  sister, 
Mrs.  Charles  Kemble,  for  whom  the  writer  in- 
tended it :  "  She  joined  acuteness  of  instinct  to 
a  general  quickness  and  accuracy  of  perception 
and  vivid  brilliancy  of  expression  that  made  her 
conversation  delightful — a  frank,  fearless,  gener- 
ous, and  an  unworldly  woman." 

At  the  time  f  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs. 
Frederick  Brown  her  figure  was  too  spare  to  be 
considered  a  good  one ;  her  bearing  graceful, 
though  not  dignified,  being  marked  with  more 
sprightliness  than  elegance ;  but  for  expression 
of  voice  and  eye,  for  unaffected  action  and  charm- 
ing gayety,  I  never  knew  one  of  her  sex  who  so 
entirely  answered  my  idea  of  an  original,  pleasing, 
and  attractive  woman.  Mrs.  Brown,  besides  being 
an  accomplished  musician,  sang  the  old  English 
opera  airs  in  a  sparkling  style  of  exquisite  gay- 
ety. Later  experience  in  the  history  of  her  family 
led  me  to  recognize  in  her  the  same  professional 
qualities  so  highly  extolled  in  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Charles  Kemble. 


204          ^    RECEPTION  IN  COLUMBIA,    S.    C. 

I  have  stated  these  circumstances  in  order  to 
call  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  two  members  of 
the  DeCamp  family  I  have  described  were  en- 
dowed with  the  same  brilliant  organization  which 
Mrs.  Kemble  prides  herself  on  having  inherited 
from  her  mother.  There  never  was  a  greater 
instance  of  hereditary  genius  or  talent  than  that 
which  marks  the  descendants  of  Captain  DeCamp 
and  his  romantic  Swiss  wife. 

A  happy  blending  of  true  artistic  excellence 
with  natural  acting  was  strikingly  apparent  in  the 
brilliant  effects  of  Miss  Fanny  Kemble's  dramatic 
style ;  and  as  her  mother,  who  held  so  distin- 
guished a  position  on  the  London  stage,  was  her 
early  instructor,  it  may  be  inferred  that,  although 
dramatic  genius  can  be  hereditary,  a  high  order 
of  success  is  necessarily  the  result  of  disciplined 
study  under  the  directing  influence  of  correct 
principles,  and,  more  especially,  of  illustrious  ex- 
ample. To  this  happy  combination  of  native 
gifts  and  acquired  graces  Mrs.  Frances  Anne 
Kemble  owes  her  entire  supremacy  as  a  stage- 
artist  and  a  dramatic  reader. 

THE   AUTHOR'S   RECEPTION  IN   COLUMBIA,   S.  C. 

In  September,  1830,  I  was  engaged  by  Mr. 
John  Sefton,  the  low  comedian  of  Mr.  Vincent 
DeCamp's  Southern  circuit,  as  a  "walking  gen- 
tleman." This  term  is  used  to-  designate  a  cha- 
racter in  the  drama  essential  to  the  progress  and 
development  of  the  plot,  but  performing  what 
may  be  termed  a  merely  mechanical  part  in  the 


AN  ANSERINE  ^SCORT.  205 

dialogue ;  that  is,  one  not  partaking  of  the  emo- 
tional characteristics  of  the  language  of  the  play. 
For  instance,  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz  in 
Hamlet  are  types  of  this  class,  and  in  Macbeth 
Donalbain  and  Lennox.  Such  parts  may  be  called 
stepping-stones  to  higher  positions.  The  young 
actor  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
details  of  his  profession  while  playing  such  parts 
has  ample  time  to  note  the  action  and  speech  of 
the  higher  personages,  and  their  relation  to  the 
argument  of  the  drama.  It  is  this  kind  of  expe- 
rience which  enables  the  careful  student  to  gain  a 
knowledge  of  the  business  of  the  scene  and  the 
proper  bearing  in  language  and  deportment  of 
the  heroes  of  the  stage. 

After  a  tedious  voyage  in  a  coasting-schooner 
from  Philadelphia  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
and  a  still  more  tiresome  journey  in  mail-coaches 
over  sandy  and  corduroy  roads,  I  arrived  at  Co- 
lumbia toward  the  close  of  the  day,  and  found 
myself  standing  in  a  crowd  of  idlers  in  front  of 
the  stage-  or  post-office.  In  a  few  moments  I 
observed  a  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  white  drilling — 
jacket  and  trousers — with  white  stockings,  pumps 
and  ribbons,  and  a  large  Panama  hat,  surveying 
me  attentively  through  an  eye-glass.  He  finally 
approached  me  with  a  kindly  smile,  and  said  in  a 
voice  of  marked  peculiarity,  "  I  presume  you  are 
my  young  recruit  from  Philadelphia?"  I  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  and  with  an  assuring  pressure 
of  my  hand  he  bade  me  welcome,  and,  after  or- 
dering my  baggage  to  a  boarding-house,  invited 

18 


2o6  DECAMP  AS  AN  ACTOR. 

me  to  go  with  him  to  the  theatre.  Stepping  into 
the  middle  of  the  street,  he  gave  a  few  clucking 
sounds,  accompanied  by  a  snapping  of  his  fingers, 
and  to  my  astonishment  a  considerable  number 
of  geese,  with  much  flapping  of  their  wings,  cack- 
ling and  hissing,  followed  the  manager  and  myself 
up  the  road  to  the  theatre,  which  was  at  least  half 
a  mile  from  the  centre  of  the  town.  Thus  was 
my  entry  into  the  capital  signalized  by  a  proces- 
sion of  geese.  I  am  happy  to  say,  however,  that 
none  of  the  sounds  peculiar  to  those  birds,  and 
which  attracted  my  attention  on  that  occasion, 
ever  assailed  my  ears  while  in  the  discharge  of 
my  professional  duties  during  my  sojourn  in  that 
city.  This  phenomenal  appearance  of  the  geese 
must  be  set  down  as  a  consequence  of  Mr. 
DeCamp's  predilection  for  country  customs,  and 
his  having  cultivated  ground  and  quite  a  snug 
barn  adjoining  his  theatre. 


VINCENT   DECAMP   AS   AN  ACTOR. 

Mr.  DeCamp  might  be  termed  an  imitator,  but 
he  certainly  was  not  a  mimic.  He  had  a  meas- 
ured, mechanical  way  of  talking,  strongly  sug- 
gestive of  melancholy,  with  a  kind  of  minor-third 
tone — what  might  be  called  a  complaining  sort  of 
running  accompaniment  to  his  conversation,  and 
yet  not  a  whine.  The  effect  of  his  manner  was 
at  times  very  laughable,  especially  so  when  the 
subject-matter  of  his  speech  was  of  an  entirely 
opposite  character. 


THE  TRAVESTY  OF  "HAMLET."  207 

I  remember  his  saying  to  me  upon  a  certain 
occasion,  "  Come  over  to  my  room  this  evening. 
We  will  have  a  conversation  upon  some  of  these 
points,  be  merry  over  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  nut 
or  two,  and  play  a  little  vingt-et-un.  There  will 
be  Hardy,  Miss  Rock,  and  Mrs.  Brown ;  Essender 
would  come,  but  his  feet  are  queer;  and  there 
will  be,  too,  my  never-to-be-sufficiently broth- 
er-in-law, Mr.  Frederick  Brown,  who,  if  he  is  not 
drunk,  is  very  good  company.  Come  over,  and 
we  will  have  a  jolly  good  time." 

He  had  a  remarkable  dog,  a  kind  of  poodle, 
whose  hair  was  cut  so  as  to  resemble  a  lion's ; 
that  is,  it  was  full  and  bushy  on  the  shoulders, 
while  the  flanks  were  shaved  almost  to  the  skin. 
He  was  a  very  large  specimen  of  the  poodle 
breed,  and  had  a  strangely  grave,  and  even  sad, 
expression  of  eye  and  face,  which  was  heightened 
by  his  long  shaggy  brows.  DeCamp  would  some- 
times put  a  full-bottomed  gray  wig  and  a  pair  of 
green  spectacles  on  him,  and  Tuppence,  as  he  was 
called,  would  sit  in  a  chair,  looking  as  grave  as 
a  judge,  watching  his  master's  motions,  strongly 
suggestive  of  the  appearance  of  the  dog  on  the 
title-page  of  Punch,  and  yet  at  that  period  (1831) 
that  magazine  of  fun  was  not  in  existence. 

One  of  the  most  enjoyable  pieces  of  acting  I 
ever  witnessed  in  the  way  of  burlesque  was  the 
travesty  of  Hamlet,  as  gotten  up  and  played  in 
our  company,  with  DeCamp  as  the  Prince.  I 
have  seen  much  of  the  same  kind  of  acting  since, 
but  never  any  so  gravely  funny.  Everything  was 


208    DECAMP  AS  THE  MELANCHOLY  DANE. 

done  soberly,  and,  while  exhibiting  the  most  ridic- 
ulous effects,  the  performers  never  for  a  moment 
showed  any  evidence  of  their  appreciation  of  the 
matter  from  a  comical  standpoint.  The  only  way 
in  which  burlesque  can  be  made  properly  effect- 
ive is  for  the  actor  to  be  in  earnest,  without  ap- 
pearing to  enjoy  his  own  jokes.  The  humor  must 
be  brought  out  and  sustained  by  a  grave  decorum 
in  its  presentation.  DeCamp  dressed  Hamlet  in 
a  black  velvet  full-skirted  coat  of  Queen  Anne's 
time,  with  a  broad  blue  ribbon  worn  over  the 
breast  and  the  Star  and  Garter,  black  breeches, 
silk  stockings  rolled  up  over  the  knee,  shoes 
and  buckles,  and  a  full  curled  wig  with  long  flaps 
of  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second.  His  action 
in  the  burlesque  was  stilted,  and  his  speech  grand- 
iloquent, the  syllables  keeping  time,  as  it  were,  to 
his  stately  step.  With  eyes  lifted,  arms  crossed 
over  the  breast,  frequent  sobs  and  groans,  and  a 
constant  application  of  his  lace  handkerchief  to 
his  face,  with  now  and  then  an  unmistakable  evi- 
dence of  a  cold  in  his  head,  he  kept  the  audience 
in  a  constant  laugh  during  his  soliloquies  and 
dialogues. 

In  after  years,  when  recalling  the  effect  of  the 
grotesque  extravagance  of  DeCamp's  perform- 
ance, I  perceived  that  he  had  given  a  good  idea, 
judging  from  the  criticisms  of  the  period,  of  the 
elder  Kemble's  manner  of  acting  the  melancholy 
Dane.  All  the  peculiarities  of  that  gentleman's 
voice,  his  mode  of  enunciation,  and  his  action, 
though  rendered  highly  amusing,  were  not  dis- 


HIS  MORE  LEU  IN  "  MONSIEUR    TONS  ON."    209 

torted  by  bald  mimicry,  but  sketched  with  the  nice 
touch  of  one  master  exaggerating  the  style  of 
another  in  a  mirth-provoking  but  friendly  spirit. 

One  of  the  most  touching,  and  at  the  same 
time  laughable,  pieces  of  acting  I  ever  saw  was 
DeCamp's  performance  of  Morbleu  in  the  farce 
of  Monsieur  Tonson.  The  old  French  gentleman 
was  driven  from  his  home  and  possessions  by  the 
Revolution,  and  compelled  for  a  living  to  become 
a  barber  and  hair-dresser.  This  character  found 
in  DeCamp  a  delineator  whose  nice  appreciation 
of  its  peculiar  traits  came  from  kindred  sentiments 
and  sympathy,  while  his  knowledge  of  the  French 
language  enabled  him  to  give  a  most  ludicrous 
turn  to  the  inverted  and  perverted  forms  of  ex- 
pression in  which  a  Frenchman,  strange  to  our 
English  modes  of  speech,  is  apt  to  give  utterance 
to  his  thoughts.  While  sensitively  alive  to  the 
feelings  of  the  old  gentleman,  he  was  brimful 
of  the  grotesque  humor  and  traditional  fun  with 
which  the  stage-character  abounds.  His  sister, 
Mrs.  Fred.  Brown,  played  Madame  Bellegarde,  the 
housekeeper,  who  had  been  a  fashionable  lady 
in  Paris,  and  became  a  fellow- refugee  when  Mor- 
bleu fled  for  his  life ;  and  in  the  farce  they  used 
to  dance  the  minuet  de  la  coiir  with  all  the  grace 
and  elegance  of  French  court-manners. 

The  dramatic  style  and  bearing  of  this  brother 
and  sister,  whose  lives  embraced  so  much  of  ro- 
mantic incident,  enjoyment,  and  privation,  were 
studies  for  a  young  histrion,  who  could  not  fail  to 
perceive  that  to  the  most  quaint,  extravagant,  and 

18*  0 


210  DECAMP  AT  AN  AUCTION. 

even  rude,  presentations  of  character  their  culti- 
vated manners  and  tastes  gave  point  and  refine- 
ment. 

DECAMP  AT  AN  AUCTION. 

One  day,  while  walking  in  the  Square  in  Co- 
lumbia with  Mr.  DeCamp,  our  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  a  group  of  persons  gathered  around 
an  auctioneer,  who  was  displaying  a  placard  which 
announced  the  sale  of  the  wood  and  brick  mate- 
rial of  an  old  city,  building,  before  which  he  was 
standing.  DeCamp,  struck  by  a  reference  to  the 
cupola  of  the  building  as  a  fine  architectural  object 
for  a  gentleman's  grounds,  immediately  became 
interested  in  the  matter,  and  the  following  dia- 
logue occurred : 

DeCamp:  "Mr.  Auctioneer,  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  inform  me  as  to  the  terms  and  con- 
ditions of  this  sale  ?  " 

Auctioneer:  "Certainly,  Mr.  DeCamp:  sixty 
days'  time  on  an  endorsed  note,  and  the  materials 
to  be  removed  in  six  days  from  the  time  of  sale." 

DeCamp :  "Allow  me  to  ask  if  the  cupola  is  to 
be  sold  separately  ?  " 

Auctioneer:  "Certainly,  Mr.  DeCamp.  It  has 
special  value  as  a  distinct  and  separate  part  of 
the  building,  having  been  but  recently  erected." 

DeCamp:  "Mr.  Auctioneer,  will  you  please  in- 
form me  if  it  can  be  removed  without  injury  to 
the  integrity  of  its  structure?" 

Auctioneer:  "Certainly,  Mr.  DeCamp.  If  you 
procure  a  careful  workman  it  can  be  taken  down 


A  POLITE  BUSINESS  TRANSACTION.         211 

without  the  least  damage  to  its  beautiful  propor- 
tions." 

DeCamp:  "Thank  you,  sir.  I  will  then  con- 
sider the  propriety  of  becoming  a  bidder." 

Auctioneer-.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  DeCamp. — Now, 
gentlemen,  as  it  is  the  crowning -point  of  the 
building,  we  will  begin  with  it  and  work  down- 
ward in  the  order  of  demolition.  Gentlemen, 
what  am  I  offered  for  the  cupola?  One  hundred 
dollars?  Not  one  hundred  dollars?  Why,  I 
thought  I  was  about  to  start  it  one  hundred  be- 
low its  value  !  Not  one  hundred  dollars  ?  Then 
say  seventy-five  dollars,  gentlemen. — Remember, 
Mr.  DeCamp,  it  can  be  removed  without  injuring 
its  beauty  as  a  picturesque  object. — Seventy-five 
dollars  ?  Not  seventy-five  dollars,  gentlemen  ? 
What  say  you,  then,  to  fifty  dollars  ?  Where  are 
the  lovers  of  architecture?  Where  are  they? 
Well,  then,  give  me  twenty-five  dollars,  and  it  is 
positively  thrown  away." 

DeCamp:  "I  will  take  it  at  twenty-five,  Mr. 
Auctioneer,  if  the  weathercock  goes  with  it." 

Auctioneer:  "Yes,  Mr.  DeCamp,  the  weather- 
cock, lightning-rod,  and  cupola. — Did  I  hear  thirty 
dollars  there  ?  Thirty  dollars  ?  " 

DeCamp:  "Yes,  Mr.  Auctioneer,  rather  than 
not  have  it  I'll  say  thirty." 

Auctioneer:  "Thank  you,  Mr.  DeCamp:  the 
cupola  is  your  property,  sir." 

Here  DeCamp's  friends  remarked,  "  Why,  you 
were  bidding  against  yourself,  sir ! "  to  which  he 
replied,  "  But,  you  see,  the  weathercock  is  an  ob- 


212  AN  APPROPRIATE  MEMORIAL. 

ject  of  interest  and  of  additional  value.  I  intend 
putting  the  cupola  up  as  a  monument  to  my  dear 
departed  Jane,  whose  body  reposes  in  the  garden 
of  my  theatre.  The  weathercock  will  serve  as  an 
indication  of  the  direction  of  the  winds,  and  at  the 
same  time  as  a  reminder  of  the  fickleness  of  dear 
Jane's  disposition  and  the  inconstancy  of  the  sex 
in  general." 

In  a  few  days  the  cupola  was  installed  in  the 
garden  at  the  side  of  the  theatre,  with  a  plaster 
cast  of  Minerva  upon  a  pedestal  in  the  centre 
of  the  circle  of  pillars  supporting  it.  If  my  read- 
ers will  refer  to  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  State  of 
Georgia,  a  good  idea  may  be  formed  of  the 
appearance  of  the  memento  provided  by  Mr. 
DeCamp  in  honor  of  his  dear  departed  Jane. 


CHAPTER    XI. 
SKETCH   OF  A    GALAXY  OF  STARS. 

HPHE  theatre  in  Savannah,  Georgia,  in  1831  was 
•^  a  very  dingy  building,  both  inside  and  out, 
large  and  ill-constructed,  situated  in  a  part  of  the 
city  remote  from  the  centre,  poorly  lighted,  and  in 
a  neighborhood  very  liable  to  an  overflow  in  wet 
weather,  in  consequence  of  which  on  rainy  nights 
the  theatre  presented  a  meagre  account  of  empty 
benches. 

The  manager,  Mr.  DeCamp,  was  very  fond  of 
a  game  of  cards,  especially  of  what  was  called 
"vingt-et-un."  The  playing  was  always  for  pica- 
yunes, as  the  old  six-and-a-quarter-cent  pieces  of 
the  North  were  called  "down  South,"  but,  as  cash 
was  more  than  frequently  at  a  premium,  grains  of 
corn  were  used  instead,  which  the  players  always 
scrupulously  redeemed.  DeCamp  was  an  excel- 
lent player  at  this  game,  and  the  consequence  was 
that  when  the  weekly  pay-day  came  round  he  was 
generally  lucky  enough  to  hold  "counters"  against 
"  accounts  current "  which  lightened  his  payments, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  players  found  their 
pockets  somewhat  lighter  too.  The  custom,  how- 
ever, was  one  "  more  honored  in  the  breach  than 
in  the  observance." 

213 


214  A    GAME    OF    VINGT-ET-UN. 

A   SHADOWY  PERFORMANCE. 

I  have  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  a  remark- 
able circumstance  that  occurred  one  night  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  period'  I  have  mentioned. 
The  play  was  George  Barnwell,  the  London  Ap- 
prentice, and  the  title  role  was  assigned  to  me. 
The  night  in  question  was  disagreeable  and  slop- 
py, and  when  the  time  arrived  for  raising  the  cur- 
tain the  call-boy  came  into  the  green-room  and 
called,  "  First  music  over,  everybody  to  begin ;" 
whereupon  the  prompter  observed  to  the  man- 
ager, "A  shy  domus,  sir"  (the  technical  phrase 
for  a  bad  house) — "positively  empty,  sir."  Mr. 
DeCamp  replied  in  his  usually  cool  and  seem- 
ingly indifferent  manner,  "Well,  Mr.  Hardy,  let 
the  call-boy  watch  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
tell  us  when  any  one  comes  into  the  boxes  or 
pit ;  and  if  that  interesting  event  does  occur,  you 
may  begin  the  play  at  that  point  of  time.  In  the 
mean  while  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  can  amuse 
themselves  with  a  game  of  vingt-et-un  in  the 
green-room,  and  by  way  of  variety  I'll  take  a 
hand  myself." 

As  I  had  passed  much  of  my  early  youth 
among  Quakers,  and  had  never  learned  to  play 
cards,  I  was  only  a  "  looker-on  in  Vienna."  The 
game  was  not  interrupted  until  the  call-boy  an- 
nounced, "Time  to  ring  curtain  down  on  first 
act,  and  nobody  come  yet."  I  will  here  state  that 
the  prompter's  book  contains  the  time-table  of 
each  act  in  every  play,  that  he  may  be  able  to  ring 


THE  LAST  HALF   OF  A   PLAY.  215 

in  the  musicians  for  their  part  of  the  performance 
between  the  acts,  and  after  that  is  over  ring  up 
the  curtain  for  the  next  act.  All  this  was  done 
while  the  sentry  at  the  peephole  of  the  prompter's 
box  watched  for  the  stragglers  to  come  in.  The 
card-playing  went  on  in  the  green-room  until  the 
time  for  the  close  of  the  second  act  brought  down 
the  curtain  again  and  the  music-bell  rang  in  the 
"fiddlers"  once  more;  after  which  the  curtain 
rose  on  the  third  act  to  a  still  empty  house.  By 
this  time  everybody  was  inclined  to  disrobe  and 
go  home,  when,  just  about  the  time  of  the  middle 
of  the  third  act,  in  bounced  the  call-boy,  crying 
out,  "Two  people  in  the  boxes  and  three  in  the 
pit!"  at  which  a  rush  on  our  part  for  the  stage 
took  place,  and  we  began  the  dialogue  at  about 
the  middle  of  the  third  act,  and  continued  the 
performance  through  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts, 
when  the  curtain  finally  fell  to  nearly  a  score  of 
spectators. 

My  old  friends,  the  managers  Sol.  Smith  and 
Peter  Logan,  have  related  stories  about  acting  to 
a  single  spectator,  and  the  following  story  is  a 
record  of  an  incident  that  occurred  one  hundred 
years  ago: 


A  UNIQUE   AUDIENCE. 

Mr.  Stephen  Kemble  used  to  relate  the  follow- 
ing incident.  He  said  that  while  he  was  manager 
of  a  theatre  at  Portsmouth,  which  was  only  opened 
twice  or  thrice  in  the  week,  a  sailor  applied  to  him 


21 6         "RICHARD   THE   THIRD"   FOR    ONE. 

on  one  of  the  nights  when  there  was  no  perform- 
ance and  entreated  him  to  open  the  theatre,  but 
was  informed  that,  as  the  town  had  not  been 
apprised  of  the  occasion,  the  manager  could  not 
risk  the  expense.  "  What  will  it  cost  to  open  the 
house  to-night?  for  to-morrow  I  leave  the  coun- 
try, and  God  knows  if  I  shall  ever  see  a  play 
again,"  said  the  sailor.  Mr.  Kemble  told  him 
it  would  be  five  guineas.  "  Well,"  said  the  care- 
less tar,  "  I  will  give  it  upon  this  condition — that 
you  will  let  nobody  into  the  house  but  myself  and 
the  actors."  He  was  then  asked  what  play  he 
would  choose.  He  fixed  upon  Richard  the  Third. 
The  house  was  immediately  lighted,  the  rest  of 
the  performers  attended,  and  the  tar  took  his 
station  in  the  front  row  of  the  pit.  Mr.  Kemble 
performed  the  part  of  Richard,  the  play  happen- 
ing to  be  what  is  styled  one  of  the  "  stock-pieces  " 
of  the  company.  The  play  was  performed  through- 
out, the  sailor  was  very  attentive,  sometimes 
laughing  and  applauding,  but  frequently  on  the 
lookout  lest  some  other  auditor  might  intrude 
upon  his  enjoyment.  He  retired  perfectly  satis- 
fied, and  cordially  thanked  the  manager  for  his 
ready  compliance.  It  may  seem  strange  that  a 
sailor,  who  in  general  is  reputed  to  be  a  gener- 
ous character,  should  require  so  selfish  an  indul- 
gence ;  but  it  hardly  need  be  observed  that  whims 
and  oddities  are  to  be  found  in  all  classes  of  so 
changeable  a  being  as  man. 


A    "DAMPER"    ON   THE  BENEFICIARY.      21  J 

A  ROLAND   FOR  AN   OLIVER. 

The  Savannah  season,  disastrous  from  the  start, 
came  to  a  close  in  the  following  manner :  The  last 
performance  was  announced  as  a  special  benefit 
for  the  manager,  the  usual  call  for  volunteers 
being  paraded.  Some  liberal  patrons  of  the 
drama  came  forward  and  made  an  effort  to  get 
up  a  "  house  "  in  order  to  enable  DeCamp  to  take 
his  company  out  of  town  in  a  reputable  manner. 

I  have  had  to  refer  to  Mr.  DeCamp  as  a  gentle- 
man high-spirited  and  honorable  in  his  dealings, 
incapable  of  doing  a  mean  act,  though  liable  to 
do  foolish  and  inconsiderate  things  from  a  lively 
disposition  and  a  love  of  fun.  The  play  selected 
for  the  closing  performance  was  the  Hypocrite,  the 
manager  being  popular  in  the  part  of  Mawworm. 
The  night,  being  a  stormy  one,  presented  a  cheer- 
less appearance,  which  damped  the  ardor  of  all 
concerned,  but  more  especially  affected  the  size 
of  the  long-expected  audience.  At  the  time  for 
raising  the  curtain  our  manager,  feeling  disap- 
pointed at  the  melancholy  aspect  of  things,  sud- 
denly came  to  the  conclusion  not  to  perform  the 
comedy,  considering  the  matter  as  more  mortify- 
ing under  the  circumstances  than  a  poor  house 
would  have  been  in  the  usual  run  of  business. 
He  therefore  appeared  before  the  curtain  and 
made  his  determination  known,  saying,  in  sub- 
stance, that  he  fully  appreciated  the  good  feeling 
manifested  by  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  present, 
who  had  come  forth  in  the  face  of  a  storm  to  take 

19 


2l8  AN  ACCEPTABLE  PROPOSITION. 

the  drama  by  the  hand,  but  that  he  confessed  his 
feelings  were  hurt,  inasmuch  as  he  had  not  re- 
ceived from  the  people  of  Savannah — for  whose 
entertainment  he  had  risked  his  means  and  em- 
ployed his  best  personal  efforts — even  the  degree 
of  patronage  they  had  extended  to  a  lower  range 
of  public  amusement;  and  that  under  the  circum- 
stances he  felt  impelled,  while  returning  his  thanks 
to  those  present  for  the  kind  feeling  they  had 
shown,  to  return  their  money  also,  and  close  the 
theatre.  Some  hissed,  but  the  majority  applauded 
his  speech.  Before  the  manager  left  the  stage, 
however,  a  gentleman  spoke  from  one  of  the 
boxes,  asking  time  for  a  further  consideration  of 
the  subject ;  and  after  a  brief  consultation  with 
his  friends  he  came  behind  the  scenes  and  pro- 
posed if  Mr.  DeCamp  would  proceed  with  the 
entertainment  and  name  a  sum  which  he  thought 
would  compensate  him,  that  amount  would  be 
paid  in  the  morning  by  the  gentlemen  who  had 
got  up  the  call  for  the  play.  This  proposition 
was  acceded  to  at  once,  the  sum  named  being  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  the  average  of  "  paying 
houses"  in  the  first  week  of  the  season,  and  ac- 
cordingly the  curtain  was  raised  and  the  play  went 
on,  so  to  speak,  and  was  "  played  out." 

During  the  evening  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  an  unusual  stir  behind  the  scenes,  or  that  part 
of  the  stage  not  occupied  by  the  performance 
of  the  comedy.  The  banqueting-tables  used  in 
Macbeth,  with  all  the  gorgeous  tinsel  and  papier- 
mache  splendor  of  chandelier  and  candelabra, 


A    REALISTIC  STAGE-BANQUET.  21 9 

were  brought  out  and  ranged  in  order ;  men  car- 
rying parcels,  etc.  were  coming  and  going  through 
the  back  stage-door, —  all  evidently  but  quietly 
engaged  in  preparation  for  something  more  than 
usual. 

Mr.  DeCamp  was  famous  for  his  facetious 
speeches,  which  I  have  no  doubt  were  much  after 
the  manner  of  those  of  the  great  "before-the- 
curtain  orator,"  as  he  was  termed,  Mr.  Elliston, 
which  eccentric  gentleman  used  to  deal  in  extra- 
ordinary metaphor  and  a  fireworks  style  of  rhet- 
oric, causing  his  auditors  almost  to  explode  with 
laughter  or  moving  them  to  mirthful  tears  at  his 
burlesque  pathos.  At  the  close  of  the  comedy 
our  manager,  in  obedience  to  the  applause,  came 
before  the  curtain  and  in  an  extravagant  "  Maw- 
worm"  style  referred  to  the  state  of  the  drama, 
complimenting  the  generosity  of  his  patrons,  who 
were  few  but  select — said  that  the  lack  of  num- 
bers was  fully  compensated  for  by  their  exceeding 
liberality ;  and  after  setting  them  in  a  roar  by  his 
witty  speech  suddenly  clapped  his  hands,  at  which 
the  curtain  rose  on  a  scene  not  set  down  in  the 
playbills,  the  above-mentioned  "banquet-tables" 
being  set  out  with  an  elegant  repast,  things  solid 
and  things  liquid,  to  which  the  entire  audience, 
numbering  about  one  hundred,  were  invited ;  and, 
coming  round  by  the  door  communicating  with 
the  stage,  the  majority  (the  few  ladies  who  had 
been  present  having  retired)  sat  down  and  en- 
joyed an  entertainment  worthy  of  our  manager's 
good  taste. 


220  JAMES    WALLA  CK,    SENIOR. 

I  must  confess  to  acting  the  churl  on  the  occa- 
sion by  going  home  to  reflect  upon  the  fact  that 
I  had  not  received  a  sufficient  salary  to  keep  up 
with  the  reasonable  expectations  of  my  landlady, 
who,  upon  hearing  of  what  had  transpired,  re- 
marked that  "  Mr.  DeCamp  had  better  thought  of 
his  actors'  board-bills  before 'he  threw  away  the 
money  they  had  earned." 

It  was  a  clear  case  of  the  "  Charles  Surface " 
idea.  When  Old  Rowley  is  about  to  remon- 
strate with  his  extravagant  master,  that  generous 
profligate  replies :  "  I  know  what  you  would  say, 
Rowley  :  '  Be  just  before  you  are  generous/  Well, 
so  I  would  if  I  could,  but  I  can't  for  the  soul  of 
me  keep  pace  with  that  old  blind,  hobbling,  bel- 
dame Justice ;  and  while  I  have,  by  Heaven !  I'll 
give,  and  so  ends  the  matter." 


THE  FIRST   ROMANTIC  ACTOR   OF  AMERICA. 

James  Wallack,  Sr.,  was  the  first  actor  on  the 
American  stage  to  exhibit  great  excellence  in  the 
highest  forms  of  the  tragic  and  comic  drama  and 
in  modern  productions  of  the  heroic,  domestic, 
and  romantic  order.  Five  distinct  and  strongly- 
marked  characters — Rolla,  Martin  Heywood  in 
the  Rent  Day,  Alessandro  Mazzaroni  in  The  Bri- 
gand, Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  and  Dick  Dashall  in 
the  farce  of  My  Aunt — found  in  that  gentleman 
a  presentation  of  character  that  left  nothing 
wanting  on  the  score  of  lifelike  portraiture  and 
picturesque  effect.  That  rare  combination,  fine 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL    OF  ACTING.       221 

person,  handsome  features,  distinguished  man- 
ners, and  thorough  dramatic  training  based  on 
intellectual  culture,  was  the  pedestal  on  which 
the  elder  Wallack  stood,  a  statuesque  representa- 
tive of  the  "  expressed  and  admirable  in  form  and 
feature  " — of  what  Charles  Dickens  termed  "  the 
romantic  school  of  acting."  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  when  Charles  Fechter  first  came  to 
this  country  publicity  was  given  to  the  endorse- 
ment which  the  great  novelist  gave  the  distin- 
guished actor  as  the  legitimate  expositor  of  dra- 
matic romance. 

It  must  not  be  understood  that  in  claiming  for 
Mr.  Wallack  the  honors  of  the  "  romantic  school " 
I  mean  thereby  to  deny  his  claims  to  a  first  rank 
in  what  is  called  legitimate  tragedy  and  comedy, 
in  which  he  acted  for  nearly  half  a  century, 
"standing  the  push  of  all  comparison  ".  with  the 
brightest  of  the  English  stars — those  luminaries 
which  shone  and  vanished  before  his  talented  son, 
Lester  Wallack,  achieved  the  professional  honor 
of  perpetuating  the  managerial  genius  of  his 
father  and  maintaining  the  standard  of  dramatic 
excellence  that  has  made  the  name  of  Wallack 
famous  in  England  and  America. 


THE   WALLACKS,  OLD  AND   YOUNG. 

There  were  two  brothers,  James  and  Henry 
Wallack.  The  latter,  a  most  excellent  and  popu- 
lar actor,  confined  himself  entirely  to  the  duties 
of  a  stage-manager  and  stock  actor,  while  his 

19* 


222          A    CASE    OF  MISTAKEN  IDENTITY 

elder  brother,  James,  played  only  "  star  "  engage- 
ments. 

James  W.  Wallack,  the  son  of  Henry,  ap- 
peared upon  the  stage  during  his  uncle's  absence 
in  England,  and  after  a  period  of  stock-acting 
had  won  his  way  to  a  "  star "  position.  He  was 
well  known  and  deservedly  popular  in  many  cities 
of  the  Union.  In  the  profession  he  was  familiar- 
ly called  "Jim,"  in  order  to  distinguish  him  from 
his  uncle  James  and  cousin  Lester,  the  son  of 
James  Wallack. 

After  a  prolonged  absence,  the  last-named  gen- 
tleman had  returned  to  this  country,  and  was  per- 
forming his  usual  round  of  engagements,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  appeared  in  Philadelphia  for 
a  few  nights  at  the  old  Chestnut  Street  Theatre, 
the  scene  of  so  many  of  his  early  triumphs.  On 
account  of  a  general  depression  in  business-mat- 
ters the  theatres  were  almost  deserted,  and  con- 
sequently Mr.  Wallack's  opening  performance 
was  but  poorly  attended.  Calling  upon  him  in 
his  dressing-room,  I  found  him  much  dispirited, 
and  I  stated  what  I  knew  to  be  the  cause  of  so 
unsatisfactory  a  house.  He  replied,  "  Oh  yes,  oh 
yes,  I  know  that ;  but,  you  see,  when  young  men 
of  your  own  name  come  forward,  the  individuality 
of  a  reputation  is  destroyed.  The  people  think 
it's  Jim,  sir,  and  not  the  Wallack !" 

A  short  time  after  he  laid  the  foundation  of 
his  theatre  in  New  York,  where  he  achieved  an 
exceptional  success  as  manager,  while  he  renew- 
ed his  old  career  of  professional  triumphs  as  an 


"PADDY"    POWER'S  ACTING.  223 

actor ;  all  of  which  he  lived  to  enjoy  to  a  ripe  old 
age.  His  exit  from  the  stage  of  life  brought  the 
curtain  down  upon  a  career  as  brilliant  as  any 
recorded  in  the  annals  of  the  drama. 


MR.  TYRONE  POWER  THE  IRISH  ACTOR,  AND  WIL- 
LIAM E.  BURTON  THE  ENGLISH  COMEDIAN. 

Without  any  injustice  to  Mr.  Power,  it  may  be 
said  that  in  genteel  comedy,  when  representing 
gentlemanly  characters,  he  was  at  times  some- 
what exuberant  in  manner,  if  not  rather  too  free ; 
but  at  the  same  time  it  must  be  admitted  that  in 
his  portraiture  of  low  Irish  character  the  spirit 
of  the  gentleman  always  peeped  through  the 
well-acted  roughness  of  the  boorish  parts  he 
performed.  The  same  in  kind,  but  differing  in 
degree  (no  matter  what  he  was  acting),  was  a 
certain  brusqueness  in  speech,  a  kind  of  jaunti- 
ness  in  his  bearing,  with  a  quizzical  cast  of  the 
eye  quite  roguish  in  expression,  but  not  at  all 
repulsive.  Shakespeare  makes  Falstaff  say  of 
Prince  Hal  that  he  had  "  a  villainous  trick  of  the 
eye."  Now,  we  must  confess  that  although  Mr. 
Power  was  never  guilty  of  such  vulgarity  as  the 
giving  of  a  downright  wink,  still  it  may  be  affirm- 
ed that,  after  the  manner  of  some  tragedians,  he 
made  a  very  effective  use  of  his  visual  organs,  and 
had  indeed  a  familiar  "  trick  of  the  eye."  In  illus- 
tration of  my  meaning  I  will  refer  to  a  passage  in 
the  writings  of  Charles  Dickens,  who  says  of  one 
of  his  characters,  "Something  remotely  resem- 


224  MR.    WILLIAM  E.    BURTON. 

bling  a  wink  quivered  for  a  moment  in  the  right- 
hand  corner  of  his  left  eye." 

In  short,  there  was  a  peculiar  archness  in  Mr. 
Power's  acting,  an  unaffected  gayety  of  manner, 
which  arrested  at  once  the  attention  of  the  audi- 
tor and  claimed  his  lively  sympathies.  In  all  the 
parts  he  acted,  from  the  gentleman  down  to  the 
smart  servant,  he  exhibited  an  entire  abandon- 
ment to  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  He  was  always 
in  earnest  and  up  to  all  the  requirements  of  the 
part.  Of  all  the  laughers  of  the  stage — and  there 
have  been  many  who  were  famous  for  this  power, 
and  for  the  faculty  of  exciting  laughter  in  others — 
I  have  never  heard  one  whose  laugh  was  so  nat- 
ural and  unaffected  as  his.  It  was  the  rich,  joy- 
ous outpouring  of  a  mirth-loving  nature.  It  was 
not  only  contagious,  but,  better  still,  it  never  left  in 
the  mind  of  the  auditor  the  least  reflection  that  its 
indulgence  had  been  at  the  expense  of  propriety 
or  good  taste.  Mr.  Power  had  a  keen  perception 
of  the  ridiculous,  with  an  exquisite  relish  for  wit 
and  humor.  The  audience  fully  enjoyed  his  jokes, 
because  they  sympathized  with  the  merriment  of 
the  actor  and  were  carried  away  by  the  irresist- 
ible flow  of  fun. 

The  very  opposite  of  this  legitimate  effect  in 
comedy  acting  was  apparent  in  the  broad  humor 
of  the  low  comedian,  Mr.  William  E.  Burton.  He 
winked  his  eye  at  the  audience  without  reserve, 
and  wriggled  and  grimaced  in  order  to  give  full 
force  to  an  objectionable  expression,  rolling  the 
precious  morsel  under  his  tongue,  and  actually 


POWER  AND   BURTON   TOGETHER.          22$ 

smacking  his  lips,  as  it  were,  with  unction  at  a 
questionable  joke,  until  what  the  author  may  have 
barely  touched  with  the  pencil  of  conceit  the 
coarseness  of  the  actor  painted  with  a  copious 
daubing  of  unmistakable  grossness. 

The  suggestive  and  positive  qualities  of  these 
performers  in  the  way  of  giving  point  to  the  lan- 
guage and  situation  of  the  scene  may  be  illus- 
trated by  an  incident  that  produced  an  extraor- 
dinary effect  during  the  performance  of  a  farce 
in  the  old  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia, 
in  which  Mr.  Burton  played  a  prominent  part,  and 
Mr.  Power  was  acting  one  of  the  rollicking  cha- 
racters in  which  he  was  remarkable  for  the  liber- 
ties he  took  with  the  text  by  the  introduction  of 
his  own  jokes,  making  fun,  as  Hood  would  say, 
"  on  his  own  hook."  Mr.  Burton  on  the  occasion 
referred  to  was  dressed  to  represent  a  big  boy 
just  home  from  school  for  the  holidays — a  hob- 
ble-de-hoy sort  of  fellow,  whom  the  comedian  had 
seen  fit  to  "  make  up,"  after  his  usually  extrava- 
gant manner,  in  a  suit  of  nankeen,  jacket  and 
trousers,  styled  by  the  English  "button-overs," 
and  worn  by  school-boys  not  yet  in  their  teens. 
The  nether  garments  were  rather  short  and  very 
tightly  fitted  to  the  person,  and  shoes  and  striped 
stockings,  with  a  large  straw  hat,  completed  the 
tout  ensemble.  Burton  was  jealous  of  Mr.  Power's 
great  popularity,  and  did  not  like  to  act  in  his 
pieces,  which  will  account  for  his  apparent  deter- 
mination to  share  the  honors  of  the  laugh — if  not 
by  language  an4  situation,  at  all  events  by  absurd- 


226  MR.   WILLIAM  B.    WOOD. 

ity  in  manner  and  dress.  Power  was  evidently 
nettled  by  the  obtrusion  of  these  objectionable 
low-comedy  features,  and  gave  his  fellow-actor  a 
"Roland  for  his  Oliver"  in  the  following  manner: 

Burton,  as  Master  Tom,  was  frisking  about  the 
stage  with  his  usual  wriggle,  while  Power — who 
in  his  capacity  of  waiter,  had  just  handed  a  cup 
of  coffee  to  one  of  the  characters — was  standing 
by  with  the  salver  in  his  hand.  At  that  moment 
Burton  passed  in  front  of  him,  and  Power,  by 
a  back-handed  blow,  brought  the  salver  with  a 
spanking  bang  across  the  most  prominent  part 
of  the  comedian's  person,  accompanying  the  ac- 
tion with,  "  Get  tails  to  your  coat,  Tom,  when 
you're  in  company !"  The  smack  sounded  like 
the  explosion  of  a  torpedo,  and  the  astonished 
comedian,  uttering  an  exclamation,  sprang  after 
his  assailant,  who,  dodging  behind  the  characters 
on  the  stage,  slipped  off  at  the  wings  and  left 
Master  Tom  to  make  the  most  of  the  situation, 
which  the  audience  was  enjoying  to  the  full. 

I  question  whether  Burton,  with  all  his  trickery, 
ever  made  so  decided  a  hit  as  Power  did  in  this 
striking  impression  of  stage- tactics. 

THE  VETERAN   FAVORITE   OF   PHILADELPHIA. 

Mr.  William  B.  Wood  was  one  of  Philadelphia's 
most  esteemed  and  admired  actors,  and  for  years 
a  successful  manager  of  "  Old  Drury,"  as  the 
Chestnut  Street  Theatre  was  always  called  by  its 
frequenters  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  drama.  He 


POWER  AND   WOOD.  22 7 

was  a  great  stickler  for  the  proprieties  of  the 
drama  and  the  decorum  of  stage-conduct,  rigidly 
exact  in  everything  relating  to  the  business  of  the 
scene,  and  letter  perfect  in  the  language  of  his 
author.  At  the  time  Mr.  Power  played  his  last 
engagement  in  Philadelphia,  Mr.  Wood  was  about 
to  retire  from  the  stage. 

Belcour  in  the  old  English  comedy  of  The  West 
Indian  was  one  of  his  parts,  and  one  in  which  he 
was  deservedly  popular  with  all  the  old  playgoers ; 
and  as  some  friends  of  Mr.  Power  had  expressed 
a  desire  to  see  him  in  the  character  of  Major 
O'Flaherty,  an  old-school  Irish  gentleman,  it  was 
arranged  that  he  should  appear  as  the  Major,  Mr. 
Wood  as  Belcour,  and  I  as  Charles  Dudley.  On 
the  occasion  of  the  performance  Mr.  Power  was 
anxious  to  "  get  through,"  as  the  theatrical  phrase 
is,  in  time  for  an  evening-party.  Indeed,  he  was 
not  very  fond  of  the  part  of  Major  OTlaherty, 
as  it  was  not  the  focal  point  of  interest  in  the  play 
nor  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  a  bright  particular 
"  star.'*  The  house  was  not  as  good  as  usual,  and 
altogether  matters  were  not  very  satisfactory  to 
actor  or  auditors.  In  fact,  the  audience  appeared 
to  be  waiting  for  Mr.  Power  to  take  possession  of 
the  scene  with  his  usual  spirit,  for  the  admirers  of 
this  hilarious  gentleman  had  become  quite  infatu- 
ated with  his  sprightly  wit  and  sparkling  humor  in 
the  busy  incidents  of  the  modern  drama,  petite 
comedy,  and  rollicking  farce,  where  the  "  Irish 
star"  so  far  outshone  the  lesser  luminaries  of  the 
stage. 


228  POWER   IN  A    HURRY. 

On  this  occasion,  it  must  be  admitted  in  justice 
to  Mr.  Power,  more  than  usual  prosiness  had 
made  the  performance  somewhat  dull,  and  there- 
fore his  impatient  desire  for  its  conclusion  was,  in 
a  certain  sense,  excusable.  Mr.  Wood,  by  reason 
of  not  having  played  Belcour  for  many  years, 
was  more  than  usually  nervous,  uncertain  in  his 
words,  and  slow  in  his  movements — a  condition  of 
things  which  was  not  in  any  wise  improved  by 
Major  O'Flaherty,  who  constantly  interlarded  his 
speeches  with  whispered  injunctions  to  the  play- 
ers to  be  "lively  and  hurry  up,"  which  not  un- 
frequently  reached  the  ear  of  Mr.  Wood.  In 
the  scene  between  Charles  Dudley  and  Belcour 
swords  are  drawn  and  an  angry  altercation  takes 
place.  Here  (without  waiting  for  the  dialogue), 
as  soon  as  the  swords  were  drawn,  at  which  a 
lady  screams,  and  while  Belcour  was  speaking, 
to  the  astonishment  of  all  parties  the  centre  doors 
flew  open,  and  in  burst  the  irrepressible  Major 
with,  "  Death  and  confusion !  what's  all  this  up- 
roar for  ? "  Then,  dashing  through  the  scene 
with  a  perfect  rattle,  he  hurried  Miss  Dudley  and 
myself  off  the  stage,  leaving  poor  Belcour  to  take 
care  of  himself. 

Mr.  Wood  was  highly  indignant  at  the  treat- 
ment he  had  received,  but  Mr.  Power  laughed  and 
turned  the  whole  matter  into  a  joke,  saying  the 
people  in  front  were  all  going  to  sleep,  and  the 
only  way  to  wake  them  up  was  to  take  Young 
Rapid's  advice  to  "  push  along  and  keep  moving." 
"This,"  continued  the  vivacious,  laughter-loving 


THE  OLD   SCHOOL  OF  COMEDY.  229 

Irishman,  "  is  a  stupid  old  play,  and  the  sooner  the 
little  fun  in  it  is  stirred  up  the  better  it  will  be  for 
all  behind  and  before  the  curtain." 

As  the  play  went  on  the  very  spirit  of  unrest 
and  mischief  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of 
the  volatile  son  of  Comus,  for  wherever  he  could 
dash  into  a  scene  with  the  slightest  chance  of 
"  cutting  it  short "  he  brought  long  dialogues  to 
a  close,  and  anticipated  matters  so  admirably  with 
an  improvised  speech  here  and  there  that  the 
performers  and  audience  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  infection,  and  the  curtain  fell  in  the  midst  of 
anything  but  a  state  of  somnolency,  while  Mr. 
Wood  retired  to  his  dressing-room  to  mourn  over 
the  sad  fate  of  the  old  school  of  comedy. 

The  whole  performance  was  a  lamentable  evi- 
dence of  the  fact  that  comedy  of  The-School-for- 
Scandal  order,  with  its  brilliant  language,  its  wit, 
repartee,  and  sentiment,  had  undergone  an  eclipse, 
and  must  succumb  to  the  powerful  influence  of  a 
dramatic  style  in  which  the  author  merely  outlines 
the  subject,  which  the  genius  of  the  actor  fills  up 
by  subordinating  the  language  to  his  powers  of 
expression.  It  may  not  be  too  much  to  say  that 
Mr.  Power  in  his  effervescing  and  exuberant  style 
of  interpreting  wit  and  humor  was  at  once  both 
author  and  actor.  Hence  in  the  legitimate  walks 
of  comedy,  where  language  is  of  paramount  im- 
portance, Mr.  Power  could  not  rise  to  the  stand- 
ard he  readily  attained  when  action  and  situation 
were  independent  of  the  merit  of  the  language. 
May  not  this  be  fairly  attributable  to  the  taste  of 

20 


230  BURTON  STEALING   WRIGHT'S   THUNDER. 

the  public,  and  not  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  per- 
former ? 

BURTON  CRITICISED   BY  POWER. 

One  night,  after  the  play  in  which  Mr.  Power 
and  I  had  been  engaged,  we  remained  at  the  wing 
to  take  a  look  at  Burton,  then  acting  in  the  farce. 
Power  had  known  our  popular  comedian  in  the 
English  theatres,  and  did  not  consider  him  an 
original  actor.  Struck  by  some  point,  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  "  By  George!  look  at  that! 
Why,  he  has  stolen  old  Wright's  thunder,  and  is 
playing  it  off  here  as  his  own ! "  As  we  turned 
to  leave  he  observed,  "  This  man's  acting  is  made 
up  of  all  the  prominent  features  of  our  London 
celebrities,  and  he  is  as  much  like  Jack  Reeves  as 
Jack  himself."  Some  time  after  this  incident  Mr. 
Reeves,  a  great  London  favorite,  came  to  Amer- 
ica, and  was  charged  by  our  critics  with  imitating 
Burton. 

I  remember  that  many  years  afterward,  while 
witnessing  a  performance  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre, 
London,  I  was  very  much  struck  with  the  manner 
of  an  actor  who  was  performing  a  low-comedy 
old  man.  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  idea 
that  it  was  Burton :  the  figure,  kind  of  voice,  its 
tricks  of  transition  from  brisk  and  high  to  heavy 
and  low,  the  mode  of  action,  everything,  was  as 
like  our  great  comedian  as  though  the  actor  be- 
fore me  was  his  reflex  in  a  glass.  I  looked  at  the 
bill,  and  lo !  there  was  the  Mr.  Wright  that  Power 
had  charged  Burton  with  copying  a  score  of  years 


A   ROYAL    GIFT   TO    THE  AUTHOR.          231 

before.  Nobody  could  mistake  that  personality, 
or  fail  to  see  the  exact  resemblance  of  it  in  Mr. 
Burton's  stage  manner  of  voice  and  gesture  in 
his  performance  of  certain  characters. 


POWER  BESTOWS  A  MEDAL  AND  MAKES  HIS  EXIT. 

I  last  saw  Mr.  Power  in  the  stage-entrance  of 
the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre.  I  had  played  with 
him  in  the  first  piece,  which  was  over,  and  I  was 
about  going  on  the  scene  in  the  afterpiece.  He 
had  resumed  his  citizen's  dress,  and  was  leaving 
the  theatre.  The  performance  of  the  evening  was 
for  his  benefit,  and  he  was  to  go  to  New  York 
the  next  morning.  In  one  of  the  plays  in  which 
we*  acted  together  very  often — Frederick  the  Great 
of  Prussia — in  return  for  a  gallant  act  by  which 
Major  O'Shaughnessy  (the  part  played  by  Power) 
saves  his  life,  the  king  bestows  a  royal  medal  on 
his  preserver.  The  traditional  manner  of  Freder- 
ick in  bestowing  the  honor  is  quaint,  quick,  and 
sharp :  "  Kneel,  major !  Wear  this  as  a  token  of 
regard  from  your  sovereign ;"  at  the  same  time 
taking  the  order  from  his  own  breast,  and  with  a 
sudden  snap  of  the  fingers  fastening  it  on  the 
lapel  of  the  major's  uniform.  The  order  which  in 
the  run  of  the  drama  was  so  often  bestowed  on 
the  Major  (Mr.  Power)  was  a  very  fine  imitation 
of  the  original  decoration.  As  Mr.  Power  ap- 
proached me  to  take  his  hasty  leave  he  said, 
"When  this  you  see,  remember  me,"  pinning  the 
medal,  with  the  peculiar  curt  manner  of  the  old 


232  POWER  MAKES  HIS  FINAL   EXIT. 

king,  on  my  breast ;  then,  pressing  my  hand 
warmly  and  raising  his  hat  in  true  military  style, 
he  said,  "  Adieu,  mon  capitaine ! "  The  next 
moment  he  was  gone,  and  I  was  on  the  stage 
engaged  in  the  business  of  the  scene.  After  a 
farewell  at  New  York  the  light-hearted  comedian 
took  his  departure  for  Liverpool  on  board  the  ill- 
fated  steamer  President,  sharing  the  mysterious 
doom  which  awaited  that  noble  ship,  her  passen- 
gers, and  her  crew. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

MISS   CUSHMAN,   AND   HER  EARLY  STUDIES. 

A  BOUT  ti835,  during  a  period  in  which  my 
^~^-  health  interfered  with  my  regular  profes- 
sional duties,  I  made  a  visit  to  New  Orleans.  I 
had,  while  playing  subordinate  parts  to  Mr.  James 
Wallack,  gained  the  good  opinion  of  that  highly- 
accomplished  actor,  and  received  from  him  letters 
recommending  me  for  a  position  in  the  St.  Charles 
Theatre,  then  open  for  the  first  season  under  the 
management  of  its  owner,  Mr.  James  H.  Caldwell. 
I  found  Mr.  Caldwell  an  exceedingly  polite  gen- 
tleman of  old-school  manners.  He  read  Mr.  Wai- 
lack's  letters,  and  said  they  were  a  sufficient  guar- 
antee of  my  ability  to  fill  the  position  he  had  kept 
open  for  me,  and  that  my  salary  would  be  sixty 
dollars  per  week  and  a  half  benefit.  When  I  was 
first  ushered  into  his  room  I  found  him  standing 
at  a  buffet  taking  his  breakfast  of  coffee  and  toast. 
Our  conversation  did  not  occupy  more  than  twen- 
ty minutes ;  while  waiting,  at  his  request,  to  take 
a  look  at  the  theatre,  which  I  had  not  yet  seen, 
a  number  of  persons  called  on  business  apper- 
taining to  his  official  duties  as  mayor  of  the  city, 
president  of  the  gas  company,  and  officer  of  an 

20  *  233 


234  MRS.  MAEDER  AND  MISS  LANE. 

extensive  land  company,  the  latter  being  for  the 
reclaiming  of  swampy  grounds  within  the  limits 
of  the  city ;  all  of  which  offices  he  filled  in  addi- 
tion to  the  management  of  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  prosperous  theatres  in  the  United  States. 

During  my  stay  in  New  Orleans  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  performing  frequently  with  two  of  the  most 
distinguished  ladies  of  the  profession.  Mrs.  James 
G.  Maeder  (formerly  Miss  Clara  Fisher)  was  one  of 
the  bright  stars  of  the  theatrical  firmament,  whose 
acting  as  a  child  of  twelve  or  thirteen  in  Richard 
the  Third  and  as  representative  of  various  juve- 
nile characters,  often  appearing  in  four  to  five 
parts  in  the  same  piece,  had  brought  her  fame 
and  fortune.  She  was  no  less  remarkable  for 
her  performance  in  high  comedy  and  in  light 
characters  in  English  opera.  The  other  lady  to 
whom  I  have  referred  was  Miss  Louisa  Lane 
(afterward  Mrs.  John  Drew),  another  prodigy  of 
the  profession,  who  also  acted  in  her  childhood 
character  parts  of  the  same  role  as  Miss  Fisher, 
and  a  charming  actress  and  a  great  favorite. 
Both  these  ladies  have  been,  and  continue  to  be, 
ornaments  to  the  profession  and  representative 
women  of  the  highest  order. 

It  was  during  my  visit  to  New  Orleans  also 
that  I  became  acquainted  with  Miss  Charlotte 
Cushman,  who  had  made  her  first  appearance 
in  Boston,  her  native  city,  in  opera.  She  was  a 
pupil  of  my  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  James  G.  Mae- 
der, the  celebrated  professor  and  teacher  of  vocal 
music,  and  made  a  "  hit"  in  her  debut,  and  through 


MISS   CHARLOTTE   CUSHMAN.  235 

the  influence  of  Mr.  Maeder  was  engaged  to  lead 
the  opera  business  in  the  St.  Charles  Theatre,  of 
which  he  was  musical  director.  I  met  her  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Maeder,  who  acted  as  her  guardian 
while  she  pursued  her  musical  studies,  her  friends 
in  Boston  being  satisfied  that  she  would  enjoy 
great  advantages  in  an  association  with  Mrs. 
Maeder,  a  lady  of  refined  manners  and  irre- 
proachable character. 

Being  much  in  the  society  of  the  Maeders,  I 
frequently  met,  and  had  ample  opportunity  for 
becoming  acquainted  with,  the  young  opera- 
singer,  and  for  observing  her  disposition  both  off 
and  on  the  stage.  The  first  time  I  saw  her  pro- 
fessionally was  in  the  character  of  Patrick  in  the 
operatic  farce  of  the  Poor  Soldier.  Miss  Cushman, 
in  the  proper  costume  of  her  sex  in  private  life, 
appeared  self-reliant  and  of  easy  and  agreeable 
manners,  but  in  her  soldier  dress  on  the  stage 
she  challenged  attention  and  asserted  a  power 
which  impressed  the  beholder  with  an  idea  of 
fixed  and  determined  purpose.  Many  years' 
acquaintance  with  Miss  Cushman  in  public  and  in 
private  life  only  confirmed  the  early  impression 
made  upon  me  by  this  great  American  actress. 

The  St.  Charles  was  one  of  the  largest  build- 
ings of  the  kind  in  the  United  States,  and  the 
powers  of  a  speaker  or  singer  were  taxed  to 
the  utmost  for  the  production  of  the  best  vocal 
effects ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  vigor  of  Miss 
Cushman's  efforts  to  carry  the  citadel  by  storm, 
rather  than  by  cautious  approaches,  in  a  short 


236  A  FINE   VOICE  DESTROYED. 

time  she  broke  down  her  voice  and  destroyed  her 
prospects  as  a  singer.  Her  instructor  had  fre- 
quently warned  her  against  the  folly  of  attempt- 
ing the  accomplishment  of  what  was  not  with- 
in the  legitimate  limits  of  her  vocal  powers ;  he 
had  cautioned  her  against  her  tendency  to  un- 
due force  of  expression,  as  calculated  to  produce 
throaty  tones  injurious  to  the  voice.  "  But,"  said 
Mr.  Maeder,  "the  young  lady  knew  better  than 
her  teacher;  she  was  almost  insane  on  the  sub- 
ject of  display  and  effect,  and  altogether  too 
demonstrative  in  the  way  of  commanding  what 
is  only  to  be  obtained  slowly  and  patiently — ope- 
ratic success."  Thus  Miss  Cushman,  disregard- 
ing the  injunction  of  an  experienced  and  thor- 
oughly-trained master  of  music,  by  her  impatience 
of  restraint  ruined  a  fine  voice,  destroying  all 
hope  of  operatic  honors,  and  was  compelled  to 
turn  her  attention  to  the  drama. 

In  our  company  at  the  St.  Charles  was  an  actor 
of  the  old  school,  a  gentleman  of  excellent  quali- 
ties both  as  a  scholar  and  tragedian.  He  was  a 
man  of  retiring  disposition  and  studious  habits, 
well  versed  in  the  traditions  of  the  stage,  and  an 
admirer  of  the  Kemble  style  of  acting.  He  was 
very  much  such  an  actor  as  Charles  Young  of  the 
London  stage,  who  was  thought  by  some  critics 
to  occupy  a  middle  place  between  Kemble  and 
Kean;  with  much  of  the  excellence  of  both  these 
great  performers,  while  others  considered  his 
style  original,  natural,  and  artistic,  and  in  dra- 
matic power  equal  to  either  of  them. 


MISS  CUSHMAN'S  DRAMATIC  INSTRUCTOR. 

Mr.  Barton,  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  allude, 
was  stage-manager — a  position  for  which  he  was 
peculiarly  qualified  by  a  familiar  practical  ac- 
quaintance with  the  business  of  acting,  and  con- 
sequently able  to  direct  the  action  of  those  who 
carried  on  the  plot  of  the  play;  an  accomplish- 
ment, by  the  way,  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  these 
later  days.  Miss  Cushman,  who  was  now  turning 
her  attention  to  the  dramatic  form  of  delineation, 
found  in  Mr.  Barton  an  excellent  instructor,  and 
began  a  course  of  study  to  fit  her  for  the  change 
she  had  determined  to  make.  Her  voice  had 
become  husky  and  hard  from  overstrained  efforts 
in  singing,  and,  fulfilling  the  prediction  of  Mr. 
Maeder,  had  lost  the  pure  quality  of  its  tone. 

The  correctness  of  this  opinion  was  fully  sus- 
tained also  by  subsequent  events.  There  was 
always  in  Miss  Cushman's  vocal  effects  a  quality 
of  aspiration  and  a  woody  or  veiled  tone  more 
becoming  the  expression  of  wilful  passion  sup- 
pressed and  restrained  than  that  emotion  which 
seeks  a  sympathetic  recognition  of  outspoken  vo- 
cality,  pure,  ringing,  and  elastic — the  former  being 
Nature's  mode  of  utterance  for  the  evil  passions, 
while  the  latter  speaks  of  the  noble,  pure,  and 
bright.  At  the  close  of  the  season  Mr.  Barton, 
observing  a  marked  improvement  in  his  pupil, 
apparent  in  her  expression  of  the  parts  she  had 
studied  and  sustained  under  his  instruction,  finally 
cast  the  young  actress  for  Lady  Macbeth. 

The  histrionic  ability  of  Mr.  Barton,  his  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  stage -manners  of  many 


238  MACREADY  AND   MISS   CUSHMAN. 

leading  actresses,  and  particularly  with  the  read- 
ings and  business-performance  of  Mrs.  Siddons  as 
the  consort  of  the  guilty  thane,  enabled  him  suc- 
cessfully to  prepare  his  pupil  for  her  arduous 
task.  The  tragedy  was  performed  for  the  benefit 
of  Mr.  Barton,  and  the  result  was  a  brilliant  au- 
dience and  a  complete  triumph  for  Miss  Cushman, 
whose  Lady  Macbeth  was  pronounced  a  great  suc- 
cess. At  the  close  of  the  season  Miss  Cushman 
came  North,  where  she  gradually  won  her  way 
by  unremitting  toil  and  good  management  (both 
within  and  without  the  theatre)  to  a  popular  po- 
sition. When  Mr.  Macready  came  to  this  country 
to  perform  his  round  of  characters  and  take  leave 
of  the  American  stage,  Miss  Cushman  supported 
him  in  many  leading  parts;  and  here  was  the  turn- 
ing-point of  her  theatrical  fortunes,  as  well  as  the 
culmination  of  her  dramatic  studies,  for  the  result 
of  her  professional  relations  with  the  tragedian  led 
to  her  English  engagements,  as  well  as  to  a  most 
determined  imitation  of  his  peculiar  mode  of  act- 
ing. Both  Mr.  Macready  and  Mr.  Barton  were 
of  the  same  school,  as  it  is  called,  and  Miss  Cush- 
man fell  into  the  habits  of  articulation  and  enun- 
ciation of  Mr.  Macready  with  greater  readiness 
because  of  her  previous  studies  with  Barton. 
Neither  of  these  gentlemen  was  remarkable  for 
clear  vocality,  but,  on  the  contrary,  spoke  from 
the  throat  more  frequently  than,  to  use  a  figu- 
rative expression  of  questionable  correctness,  from 
the  forward  parts  of  the  mouth.  The  stage  bear- 
ing and  action  of  both  gentlemen  were  of  marked 


A   LOVER    OF  POWER   AND   POSITION.      239 

peculiarity,  and  it  is  not  strange  that,  under  the 
circumstances,  Miss  Cushman  should  have  fol- 
lowed the  style  of  two  such  distinguished  exem- 
plars of  dramatic  art.  Miss  Cushman  was  by 
nature  and  education  a  lover  of  place  and  po- 
sition, of  "  the  ribbon  and  star."  To  a  determined 
disposition  to  make  the  most  of  social  advantages 
she  added  a  fine  tact  in  the  management  of  peo- 
ple whom  she  considered  necessary  to  her  per- 
sonal interests  or  professional  advancement.  In- 
deed, it  may  be  said  that,  without  being  a  female 
Richelieu,  she  approached  in  a  measure  the  quali- 
ties of  quick  perception  which  enabled  the  wily 
cardinal  to  bend  things  in  the  right  direction,  but 
in  no  way  approximated  the  sterner  attributes  of 
the  profound  politician,  who,  it  is  said,  "  when  the 
twig  would  not  bend,  did  not  hesitate  to  lop  off 
the  offending  limb." 

o 

To  be  known  in  society,  to  possess  and  wield 
an  influence,  were  the  constant  aims  of  this  most 
ambitious  and  gifted  actress.  I  remember  one 
day,  when  calling  on  her  in  New  York  just  after 
her  arrival  from  Europe,  and  within  a  day  or  two 
of  her  appearance  in  public,  she  asked  me  upon 
whom  I  called  in  the  city.  I  replied  that  I  did  not 
make  calls.  She  exclaimed,  "  Why,  you  astonish 
me  !  Look  there  !  "  pointing  to  a  well-filled  card- 
stand  :  "  I  have  all  those  to  return,  though  I  have 
been  busy  at  it  ever  since  my  arrival.  One  can- 
not be  too  careful  of  popular  interest."  Her 
fondness  for  society  was  insatiable,  and  wealth 
had  no  more  devoted  worshipper.  Miss  Cush- 


240      MISS   CUSHMAN  EXTREMELY  PROSAIC. 


man  s  style  of  acting,  while  it  lacked  imagination, 
possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  the  elements 
of  force  :  she  grasped  the  intellectual  body  of  the 
poet's  conception  without  mastering  its  more 
subtle  spirit  ;  she  caught  the  facts  of  a  character, 
but  its  conceits  were  beyond  her  reach.  Her  un- 
derstanding was  never  at  fault  ;  it  was  keen  and 
penetrating.  But  that  glow  of  feeling  which 
springs  from  the  centre  of  emotional  elements 
was  not  a  prominent  constituent  of  her  organiza- 
tion. She  was  intensely  prosaic,  definitely  prac- 
tical, and  hence  her  perfect  identity  with  what 
may  be  termed  the  materialism  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
and  the  still  more  fierce  personality  of  that  dra- 
matic nondescript,  Meg  Merrilies,  neither  of  which 
characters  was  of  "  imagination  all  compact,"  but 
rather  of  imperious  wilfulness.  In  relation  to 
this  tendency  in  actors  to  make  their  impersona- 
tions of  character  strictly  natural,  let  us  consider 
the  following  lines  of  Lady  Macbeth: 

I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me  : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face 
Have  plucked  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Lady  Macbeth  by  this  declaration  means,  in 
other  words,  to  say,  "  My  will  is  so  stern  and 
unyielding  that  if  I  had  sworn  to  a  certain  deed, 
no  matter  how  much  at  variance  with  my  nature, 
I  have  the  nerve  at  whatever  sacrifice  to  do  it." 


LADY  MACBETH  NOT  ALL    UNSEXED.      241 

Now,  as  the  taking  of  the  life  of  an  infant  by  its 
own  mother  would  be  the  most  extreme  act  of 
cruelty  a  woman  could  be  capable  of  performing, 
the  over-excited  mind  of  Lady  Macbeth  uses  it 
as  an  illustration  of  her  capacity  for  determined 
action. 

But  let  us  look  at  the  actual  deeds  of  this  self- 
proclaimed  and  prospective  murderess,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  threatenings  of  the  valor  of  her 
tongue.  Picture  her  for  a  moment  standing  by 
the  bedside  of  the  sleeping  Duncan  with  the 
dagger  raised  to  strike  the  deadly  blow;  then 
behold  her  fleeing  from  the  chamber,  "  cowed " 
by  "the  better  part"  of  her  nature,  exclaiming, 
"  Had  he  not  resembled  my  father  as  he  slept,  I 
had  done  it."  Here  is  a  touch  of  womanly  cha- 
racter that  speaks  for  itself^and  shows  Lady 
Macbeth  as  not  all  "unsexed."  The  poet  has 
drawn  a  towering  nature  elevated  to  the  sublime 
heights  of  a  dazzling  ambition — a  lofty  concep- 
tion of  wickedness  plotting  for  the  acquisition  of 
a  crown,  to  be  struck  from  the  brow  of  a  sleep- 
ing king  by  the  assassin's  blow. 

The  grandeur  of  a  poetic  idea  elevates  the 
deed  of  blood,  without  divesting  it  of  its  horrors, 
above  the  repulsiveness  of  a  commonplace  mur- 
der. This  is  the  poetic  license.  The  heroine  of 
the  poet  invokes  the  pall  of  darkness  to  hide  the 
wound  made  by  the  bloody  knife,  while  the  hero- 
ine of  the  stage  by  a  violent  and  inartistic  man- 
ner plucks  away  "  the  blanket  of  the  night "  to 
show  the  dreadful  deed  in  all  its  hideous  deform- 
21  Q 


242  AN  IRISHMAN'S  STORY. 

ity,  exhibiting  the  coarse  features  and  harsh  voice 
of  the  heroine  of  a  melodrama,  who  stands  ready 
to  hold  the  candle  to  the  midnight  murderer  whose 
object  is  the  purse  of  a  weary  traveller.  Thus  is 
one  of  Shakespeare's  grandest  dramatic  concep- 
tions dragged  down  to  the  lowest  level  of  a  mere 
sensational  exhibition. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  remark  upon  the  fact 
("  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger ")  that  the  man- 
ner of  the  stage  Lady  Macbeth  is  frequently  so 
fiercely  violent  that  it  is  enough  to  induce  the 
spectator  to  feel  that  Shakespeare's  heroine  is 
not  only  fully  capable  of  killing  her  own  infant 
at  sight,  but  if  occasion  offered  could  perpetrate 
by  her  own  unaided  efforts  another  general 
"slaughter  of  the  innocents,"  merely  for  the 
gratification  of  an  insatiate  thirst  for  blood. 


MURPHY'S   STORY:    DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS. 

I  will  here  relate  one  of  those  strange  theat- 
rical incidents  by  which  both  actor  and  auditor 
are  sometimes  suddenly  precipitated  from  the 
very  pinnacle  of  tragic  elevation  to  the  uttermost 
depths  of  comic  perplexity. 

Many  years  ago  in  Dublin  there  was  a  musical 
genius  who  "got  up"  the  operas  for  Bunn,  the 
celebrated  English  manager.  While  an  opera 
was  in  course  of  preparation  Mr.  Brown  (as  I 
shall  call  him),  a  great  London  star,  was  engaged 
to  play  a  few  nights  in  tragedy.  The  manager 
was  in  a  strait  for  members  to  fill  up  the  small 


THE   GREAT  ACTOR  FROM  LONDON.        243 

parts,  only  the  principal  performers  coming  over 
from  London ;  and  my  young  Irish  friend,  the 
genius  to  whom  I  have  alluded,  being  up  to  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  fun,  agreed  to  "go  on,"  as  it 
is  said,  for  some  of  the  small  characters,  when 
necessary,  to  oblige  his  friend  Mr.  Bunn ;  and 
now  I  shall  proceed  to  tell  the  story  as  he  told 
it  to  me: 

"The  part  in  question  was  Lucullus,  the  gen- 
tleman in  Damon  and  Pythias.  That's  the  man 
that  kills  the  horse,  you  know.  Well,  the  young 
gentleman  who  was  cast  for  the  part  got  sick — bad 
luck  to  him  for  that  same ! — and  at  a  moment's 
notice  I  was  summoned  from  the  music-room  to 
'go  on'  for  Lucullus.  Mr.  Brown  wasn't  exactly 
the  man  to  take  things  aisy,  he  being  a  great  gun, 
and  I  found  him  roaming  about  at  large,  pretty 
much  as  you  might  imagine  a  huge  mastiff  would 
that  had  lost  his  bone.  Well,  the  tragedian  looked 
at  me  and  said,  '  You're  Mr.  Murphy,  are  you  ?' — 
'  Yes,'  sez  I,  '  I  am  that  same.' — '  You're  not  the 
biggest  man  I  ever  saw.' — 'No,  sir,'  sez  I,  'but, 
you  see,  I'm  an  Irishman,  and  may  make  up  in 
pluck  what  I  lack  in  flesh.' — '  Yes,'  says  he,  '  but 
the  part  you  are  to  play  is  not  a  plucky  one,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  say :  Lucullus  is  rather  a  timid 
gentleman,  but  a  kind-hearted  one,  and,  as  you 
are  so  good  as  to  help  us  in  this  emergency, 
so  far  the  part  will  be  suited.' — '  Thank  you,  sir/ 
sez  I. 

"  The  rehearsal  went  on.  I  read  the  part,  and 
when  we  came  to  the  scene  where  Lucullus  tells 


244  AN  ATHLETIC  DAMON. 

Damon  how  he  killed  his  horse,  Mr.  Brown  went 
over  the  business  of  the  scene  for  me ;  he  showed 
me  how  I  was  to  stand,  and  how  I  was  to  kneel, 
and  all  about  it,  you  know.  Well,  he  picked  me  up 
at  the  right  time  from  my  knees,  and  gently  land- 
ed me  on  the  other  side  of  the  stage  with  a  bump 
that  made  me  think  all  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and 
a  full  head  of  gas  on  at  that.  '  I  beg  your  par- 
don,' sez  he ;  '  you're  lighter  than  I  thought  you 
were.' — '  Yes,  sir,'  sez  I ;  '  and  bedad !  you  are  a 
good  deal  stronger  than  I  thought  you  were/ — 
'Well/  sez  he,  'Mr.  Murphy,  you  will  oblige  me 
and  serve  yourself  if  you  will  tie  a  twisted  hand- 
kerchief around  your  body  just  under  your  arms, 
with  the  knot  in  front  resting  on  your  breast  be- 
neath the  folds  of  your  tunic.' — 'And  what/  sez  I, 
'will  I  do  that  for?' — 'Why,  sir/  sez  he  (and  I 
thought  he  said  it  with  a  sardonic  smile) — 'why, 
then,  you  see,  when  I  clutch  you  in  my  fury  I 
shall  have  something  to  hold  on  to  stronger  than 
the  slight  stuff  of  your  dress ;  for  I  have  known 
cases  where  the  tunic  wasn't  strong,  and  it  gave 
way  in  my  clutch,  and  Lucullus  was  somewhat 
hurt/ — 'Hurt?'  sez  I. — 'Yes/  sez  he;  'that  is, 
was  slightly  frightened,  maybe,  more  than  hurt/ 
"In  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  trust  to  Providence  and  my  lucky 
stars,  that  had  often  got  me  out  of  scrapes,  but 
with  this  reservation — that  if  I  escaped  death  at 
the  hands  of  an  infuriated  tragedian  this  time,  I 
would  never  tempt  my  fate  again,  outside  of  the 
dangers  and  perils  of  an  opera  at  all  events. 


A   FUGITIVE  LUCULLUS.  245 

"I  went  home,  read  over  the  play,  and  got 
ready  for  the  night.  Well,  seven  o'clock  came, 
and  ten  o'clock  came  too,  as  it  always  does,  no 
matter  what  troubles  or  shortcomings  may  lie 
between  the  rising  of  the  curtain  and  its  falling, 
which  generally  makes  all  things  even.  But,  be- 
dad !  I  don't  think  my  score  was  ever  settled  for 
that  night,  and  if  it  was,  the  host  must  have  paid 
the  reckoning  himself  and  counted  me  out. 

"  Well,  my  story  has  an  end,  though  you  may 
think  as  the  Irishman  did  when  he  said  to  the 
captain,  after  pulling  a  long  while  at  the  sea-line, 
'  Be  jabers !  I  think  somebody  must  have  cut  off 
the  end  of  the  rope.' — Well,  here's  the  end  of 
my  story. 

"I  got  along  pretty  well  till  the  scene  where  I 
have  to  tell  him  about  the  horse,  and  then — holy 
St.  Francis ! — what  did  I  do  ?  '  My  horse  !  my 
horse !'  sez  he — '  where's  my  horse  ?' — '  I  have 
killed  him,'  sez  I,  and  then  came  a  yell  as  if  some- 
thing hard  had  dropped  on  Damon's  head.  I 
looked  up,  and  such  a  face  I  never  saw  outside 
of  a  menagerie.  His  hands  were  up  above  his 
head,  his  mouth  frothing,  and  his  eyes  rolling. 
My  heart  was  beating  so  thick  and  fast  I  thought 
it  must  burst  the  knotted  band  that  was  tighten- 
ing over  my  chest.  '  I  am  standing  here,'  sez 
Damon,  '  to  see  if  the  great  gods  will  execute  my 
vengeance.'  I  looked  up  at  him,  and  felt  that  my 
hash  would  soon  be  settled ;  so,  not  waiting  for 
what  I  felt  would  be  instant  death,  I  slipped  gen- 
tly off  the  stage  and  ran  down  under  it,  where  they 
21  * 


246  A  DEMORALIZED  PLAY. 

keep  the  stage-properties  all  jumbled  up  in  the 
dark,  and  quietly  hid  myself  in  an  old  Tom-and- 
Jerry  watch-box  that  stood  conveniently  open. 

"  Well,  now,  I  know  you'll  ask  me  how  Damon 
got  out  of  the  scrape  I  had  got  him  into,  but,  as 
the  man  says  in  the  play,  '  If  you  want  to  make 
me  your  bosom  friend  don't  puzzle  me.'  All  that 
I  saw  after  that  was  only  what  I  heard.  First 
came  the  prompter's  voice  calling  out,  '  Lucullus  ! 
Lucullus !'  while  the  people  were  thumping  and 
howling  away  like  mad.  *  Lucullus  !  where  in  the 
devil's  name  are  you  ?  Damon  is  waiting  for  you, 
and  storming  like  a  fury.' — '  I  have  no  doubt  he 
is,'  sez  I  to  myself.  'I  would  do  just  that  same 
thing  if  I  was  Damon  and  somebody  else  Lu- 
cullus. But  if  I  stir  out  of  this  till  I'm  hungry, 
the  devil  himself  may  get  my  supper/  And  I 
didn't.  I  heard  a  great  rumpus  over  my  head 
on  the  stage,  but  it  soon  died  out,  and  I  was  left 
in  the  dark. 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  how  that  scene  came 
to  a  close.  All  I  have  to  say  is,  that  it  wasn't 
finished  after  the  manner  set  down  in  the  prompt- 
er's book.  But  one  thing  you  may  depend  upon  : 
Mr.  Murphy  was  never  called  upon  to  'go  on' 
for  any  parts,  large  or  small,  where  Mr.  Brown 
or  any  other  strong-muscled  tragedian  was  con- 
cerned." 

AN   "OLD   KENTUCKY   HOME." 

In  Louisville,  Kentucky,  about  1859,  one  night, 
after  playing  Charles  De  Moor  in  The  Robbers,  I 


A  HEARTY  INVITATION.  247 

was  passing  out  at  the  stage-door  wrapped  in  a 
heavy  military  mantle  or  cloak,  which  I  usually 
wore  in  De  Moor,  when  I  was  accosted  with,  "  All 
right,  old  fellow  !  You're  engaged  now  for  a  per- 
formance at  Owl's  Nest ;  you're  wanted,  and  must 
come."  Knowing  the  hearty  Kentucky  attributes 
of  my  friend  Richard  Rousseau,  a  limb  of  the 
law,  whose  kindly  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,  I  felt 
how  impossible  it  would  be  to  dissent  from  what 
I  at  once  perceived  it  was  his  determination  to 
carry  out  then  and  there — a  long- threatened  mid- 
night raid  on  the  inhabitants  of  the  old-fashioned 
country  residence  and  farming  establishment  of 
the  widow  of  Judge  Estelle,  situated  in  a  charm- 
ing rural  district  known  as  "Peewee  Valley," 
about  sixteen  or  eighteen  miles  from  Louisville. 
My  not  very  decided  objections  on  the  score  of 
non-preparedness,  unbecoming  costume,  etc.  were 
met  with,  "There's  a  buggy,  and  a  horse  that's 
not  afraid  of  work,  and  can  do  any  amount  of  it, 
and,  what's  better,  can  see  his  way  over  the  dark- 
est and  dirtiest  roads  that  are  to  be  found  in 
Kentucky.  Now,"  said  he,  "  in  conclusion,  and  in 
the  words  of  a  judge  not  remarkable  for  elegant 
language,  'If  this  court  knows  herself — and  she 
thinks  she  do* — you're  bound  to  take  that  seat 
and  the  attending  consequences."  So  saying,  he 
helped  me  up,  took  the  reins,  and  off  we  dashed 
for  an  owl's  visit  to  Owl's  Nest. 

The  horse  went  along  at  a  gait  which  clearly 
showed  that  he  had  not  been  doing  anything  to 
tire  him  for  some  time.  A  clear  star-lit  midnight, 


248  A   MIDNIGHT  SMASH-UP. 

with  the  bracing  atmosphere  of  a  closing  autumn, 
together  with  an  intelligent,  good-natured  friend 
fond  of  talking  "  theatre,"  Shakespeare,  and  Schil- 
ler, loving  good  things  in  general,  and  somewhat 
inclined  to  the  romantic  side  of  life,  and  in  ad- 
dition to  all  these  surroundings  a  good  cigar, — 
made  us  enjoy  the  ride  to  the  "  top  of  our  bent." 
We  had  "  done  up"  about  half  our  journey  when, 
in  passing  through  a  piece  of  woods,  the  horse, 
without  any  apparent  cause,  suddenly  reared  and 
made  a  leap,  and  lo!  we  found  ourselves  thrown 
against  the  dasher,  very  much  mixed  up  and 
dreadfully  shaken.  The  horse  was  on  his  feet, 
however,  and  kicking  furiously  in  the  middle  of  a 
pile  of  brush,  the  front  wheels  of  the  buggy  being 
on  one  side  of  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  while  the 
hind  wheels  were  on  the  other.  Reasons  why  and 
wherefore  as  follows :  The  road  was  not  a  com- 
mon thoroughfare,  but  a  "short  cut"  through  a 
plantation ;  the  negroes  had  felled  a  tree,  and,  as 
it  was  Saturday  and  the  evening  had  come  on 
before  they  had  finished  their  work,  they  had  left 
the  tree  where  it  had  fallen.  We  soon  managed 
to  extricate  the  vehicle  and  tie  up  the  harness, 
and  after  overhauling  our  cargo  of  fresh  fish, 
claret,  champagne,  and  sundry  other  grocery 
items,  which  we  happily  found  in  nowise  injured, 
we  continued  on  our  way — if  not  rejoicing,  at 
least  thankful  that  things  were  no  worse. 

Arriving  at  Owl's  Nest  between  the  first  and 
second  crow  of  the  cock,  our  advent  caused  a 
sudden  rise  from  the  horizontal  to  the  perpendic- 


AN  "OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME."  249 

ular  among  the  servants  of  the  family  as  well  as 
the  outside  workers,  but  the  event  was  hailed  by 
all  hands  a  "jubelification."  I  must  state  here,  as 
some  excuse  for  the  liberties  we  were  taking,  that 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  upon  intimate  terms 
with  the  family,  while  Massa  Dick — as  Mr.  Rous- 
seau was  called  by  the  whole  working  population 
of  Owl's  Nest — was  looked  upon  as  though  he 
owned  everything,  from  the  front  gate  to  the 
back  yard,  stock,  root,  and  branch,  and  the  family, 
white  and  black,  included. 

Early  sunrise  found  the  inmates  up  and  moving 
in  the  direction  of  a  good  breakfast,  which  was 
soon  served  and  presided  over  by  our  hostess, 
from  whom,  in  spite  of  our  irregular  proceedings, 
we  received  a  hearty  welcome.  After  a  pleasant 
chat  with  Madam  Estelle  and  the  ladies  of  the 
family  we  took  a  ramble  over  the  country,  which 
was  remarkable  for  its  picturesque  beauty  in  hill, 
dale,  wood,  and  water.  In  approaching  the  house 
on  our  return  through  a  shady  avenue,  one  could 
not  but  be  struck  with  the  natural  beauty  of 
Owl's  Nest.  It  was  a  wooden  structure,  and  in 
what 'Zekiel  Homespun  calls  "a  rather  tumblish- 
down  condition."  It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  ven- 
erable grove  of  locust  trees,  whose  extending 
branches  surrounded  and  swept  over  the  roof, 
breaking  up  the  sharp  angles  of  its  gables  and 
dormer-windows,  while  the  huge,  unshapely  mass 
of  bricks  which "  formed  the  chimneys,  together 
with  much  of  the  old  weatherboarding,  were  hid- 
den or  obscured  by  the  luxuriant  growth  of  an 


250  AN  OLD-TIME   HOSTESS. 

immense  Virginia  creeper.  This,  with  the  pendent 
limbs  of  the  trees,  gave  to  the  rude  aspect  of 
things  a  most  striking  and  pleasing  effect.  The 
large  parlor  or  general  family-room  was  of  the 
plainest  form  and  finish,  with  low  ceiling  and  a 
grand  old-fashioned  fireplace,  where,  on  the  gro- 
tesque irons,  blazed  a  pile  of  cordwood  logs. 

Amid  the  simple  but  attractive  features  of  life 
belonging  to  the  region  I  have  described  could  be 
found,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
a  condition  of  slave-labor  which  seemed  to  bring 
solid  comfort,  and  even  rustic  happiness,  to  many 
a  sable  tiller  of  the  soil  who  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  earned  the  bread  of  the  common  household. 
And  here  I  cannot  refrain  from  an  expression  of 
the  admiration  I  felt  for  the  character  and  per- 
sonal graces  of  Madam  Estelle,  or,  as  the  dusky 
members  of  the  family  in  their  simple  familiarity 
called  her,  "the  old  mistress."  She  was  the  widow 
of  Judge  Estelle,  and,  like  her  husband,  was  born 
in  Virginia.  The  judge  was  a  man  of  scholarly 
attainments  in  addition  to  his  legal  knowledge ; 
he  resided  at  one  time,  and  during  the  adminis- 
tration of  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  Washington, 
D.  C.,  where  his  wife  was  noted  for  her  intellect- 
ual culture  and  brilliant  conversational  powers, 
holding  a  distinguished  position  among  the  ladies 
who  graced  the  circle  of  fashionable  society  in  the 
Capitol  City.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  she  was 
about  sixty  years  of  age,  with  regular  features,  a 
fine  fresh  complexion,  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  placid 
smile  whose  sweetness  won  its  way  directly  to  the 


A    KENTUCKY  DINNER.  251 

heart.  But  the  crowning  point  which  gave  to  a 
queenly  person  a  matronly  grace  was  a  head  of 
perfectly  white  hair,  cropped  short  behind,  and 
worn  in  front  in  the  style  called  Pompadour.  I 
remember  with  pleasure  the  impression  this  ele- 
gant lady  made  upon  me  when  I  first  saw  her  sit- 
ting in  the  dress-circle  of  the  Louisville  theatre, 
where,  amid  a  throng  of  the  rarest  of  Kentucky 
beauties,  she  was  conspicuous  for  "  inborn  dignity 
and  native  grace." 

The  morning  walk  to  which  I  referred  before 
making  this  digression  being  over,  a  comfortable 
nap  put  us  into  a  good  condition  for  the  full 
enjoyment  of  a  substantial  farm-dinner.  The 
"fatted  calf"  and  the  inevitable  Southern  stand- 
by, jowl-and-greens,  formed  a  solid  foundation  for 
the  more  unsubstantial  contents  of  the  hamper 
which  my  considerate  companion  had  provided 
to  meet  any  possible  deficiencies  in  the  larder 
where  visitors  were  not  expected. 

Rising  "like  giants  refreshed"  from  the  fes- 
tive board,  where  beauty,  grace,  and  hospital- 
ity presided,  we  were  soon  upon  our  "  winding 
way,"  and  finally  safe  home  at  the  Gait  House 
in  Louisville. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

DIFFERENCES  IN  THE  EARLY  TRAINING  OF  TWO 
GREA  T  TRA  GEDIANS,  WILLIAM  MA  CREAD  Y  AND 
ED  WIN  FORREST. 

HPHERE  are  few  things  more  interesting  or 
-*•  more  instructive  than  the  history  of  artistic 
genius,  its  development,  struggles,  and  achieve- 
ments. In  its  application  to  dramatic  perform- 
ance it  must  be  in  a  great  measure  moulded  by 
self-culture  and  experience,  whether  its  professor 
is  so  fortunate  as  to  enjoy  great  advantages  and 
opportunities  or  condemned  to  contend  with  dif- 
ficulties and  toil  on,  unaided  by  suggestive  mod- 
els and  inspiring  occasions. 

The  young  actor  may  be  a  metropolitan,  or  he 
may  be  a  provincial  performer  subjected  to  all 
the  privations  and  disadvantages  to  be  encoun- 
tered by  a  member  of  a  strolling  company.  But 
in  either  case  to  become  eminent  in  his  profession 
he  must  be  original  and  self-educated.  He  must 
use  his  own  powers,  his  own  eyes,  and  his  own 
judgment,  and  he  must  use  them,  too,  in  select- 
ing the  excellences  of  various  styles  as  displayed 
in  the  manner  of  different  performers.  In  either 
supposed  condition  of  the  actor  in  the  period  of 
professional  preparation  he  must  study  the  pro- 

252 


\ 
THE  EARLY  TRAINING    OF  AN  ACTOR.    253 

foundest  forms  of  thought,  the  noblest  moods  of 
sentiment,  the  most  vivid  emotions  of  the  soul, 
and  dwell  upon  them  until  their  full  power  and 
value  are  deeply  felt,  and  their  intensity  glows 
into  expression ;  then  by  the  exercise  of  a  sound 
discretion  and  correct  taste  fashion  his  external 
manners  and  adapt  his  thoughts  and  feelings  to 
the  presentation  required  by  the  poet,  so  that  he 
may  recreate  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  or  Lear  in  living 
attitude  and  movement,  in  tone  and  look,  in  very 
bodily  presence,  as  seen  by  the  reader  of  Shake- 
speare ;  and,  moreover,  he  must  execute  the 
artistic  feat  so  truly  and  effectively  that  amid 
assembled  multitudes  each  individual  will  in- 
stantly recognize  the  universal  burst  of  admira- 
tion and  applause  with  which  it  is  acknowledged. 
How  different  are  the  circumstances  under 
which  such  power  is  acquired !  and  how  varied 
the  self-culture  by  which  it  is  matured !  Viewed 
in  this  light,  every  actor  becomes  an  instructive 
study  to  his  brother-actor,  and  of  all  living  per- 
formers none  perhaps  have  taught  the  principles 
of  the  art  by  the  suggestions  of  example  more 
fully  than  the  two  most  distinguished  tragedians 
of  our  own  day — Macready  and  Forrest. 

MACREADY. 

The  former  commenced  his  career,  as  it  might 
be  said,  in  the  cradle  of  Thespis,  his  father  hav- 
ing been  a  respectable  and  successful  theatrical 
manager  in  most  of  the  large  towns  of  England, 
22 


254  MACREADY'S   YOUTHFUL   ARDOR. 

and  creditably  sustaining  a  certain  rank  as  an  ac- 
tor on  the  London  boards,  and  having  written  at 
least  one  successful  afterpiece,  which  still  holds 
its  place  upon  the  stage.  It  is  not,  then,  to  be 
wondered  at  that  the  young  aspirant,  in  actual 
possession  of  the  most  advantageous  opportuni- 
ties for  studying  those  distinguished  models  of 
excellence  in  the  actor's  art  so  accessible  during 
the  early  part  of  the  present  century,  should  have 
been  smitten  with  a  passion  for  the  stage. 

The  theatrical  tyro  in  this  instance  came  to 
the  study  of  dramatic  art  after  the  enjoyment  of 
fine  opportunities  for  previous  mental  culture,  his 
father  having  designed  him  for  the  bar — a  pur- 
pose which  he  relinquished  only  after  long-con- 
tinued solicitation  on  the  part  of  his  son,  and 
with  extreme  reluctance. 

Here,  then,  is  an  example  of  a  debutant  start- 
ing up  from  the  very  theatre  itself,  surrounded 
with  every  professional  advantage.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances, however,  he  furnished  the  most  im- 
portant of  all  lessons  to  the  young  aspirant.  He 
leaned  on  no  factitious  aid,  but  on  adopting  the 
profession  gave  himself  wholly  to  study.  Never 
was  there  a  more  earnest  or  devoted  student; 
and  when  in  a  spirit  of  filial  obedience  he  as- 
sumed the  laborious  task  of  stage-management 
for  his  father,  he  gave  another  practical  lesson  to 
the  histrion.  The  stage  under  his  management 
became,  what  it  ought  always  to  be,  a  school  of 
dramatic  instruction.  Every  actor  had  the  bene- 
fit of  his  suggestions ;  rehearsals  under  his  direc- 


HIS   CAREER   AS  A   STAGE-MANAGER.       255 

tion  were  objects  of  interest  to  all  concerned  in 
the  business  of  the  theatre.  We  are  told  by  one 
intimately  acquainted  with  Macready,  who  had 
watched  his  progress  from  the  earliest  stages  of 
his  professional  career  to  that  point  in  which,  leav- 
ing the  provincial  theatres,  he  established  a  repu- 
tation for  himself  in  the  great  metropolis,  that 
he  abolished  all  foolish  fastidiousness  about  rank 
in  the  greenroom,  and  all  petty  jealousy  on  that 
account.  For  successive  years  he  made  it  a  point 
to  aid  his  father  by  playing  everything  that  came 
to  hand  in  the  routine  of  business,  whether  tra- 
gedy, melodrama,  comedy,  or  farce.  His  con- 
summate skill  in  dramatic  expression  was  prob- 
ably largely  due  to  the  course  thus  pursued  in 
early  life. 

The  success  which  followed  his  professional  de- 
votion was  at  one  time  most  strikingly  exhibited 
during  a  period  of  his  father's  career  as  manager 
in  Scotland.  Mr.  Macready,  Sr.,  had  been  in- 
duced to  attempt  the  hazardous  experiment  of 
taking  a  lease  of  the  theatre  at  Glasgow — a  place 
somewhat  famous,  even  in  Scotland,  for  its  sanc- 
timonious abhorrence  of  a  playhouse.  Fanatic 
zeal  had  caused  the  burning  down  of  more  than 
one  theatre  in  that  place,  and  several  managers 
in  succession  had  ruined  themselves  in  attempting 
to  meet  the  enormous  expenses  inseparable  from 
the  arrangement  of  the  new  theatre,  which,  in  a 
fit  of  absurd  reaction  against  popular  bigotry,  was 
built  of  colossal  dimensions  and  at  an  extravagant 
cost.  The  utmost  exertions  were  required  on  the 


256         GRAVEYARD  SCENE  IN  "HAMLET." 

part  of  both  father  and  son  to  render  the  house 
attractive ;  and  the  latter,  by  his  efficient  control 
of  the  stage,  as  well  as  his  own  admirable  playing, 
then  fresh  with  all  the  force  of  youthful  genius 
and  natural  freedom,  placed  his  father's  enterprise 
on  secure  ground,  where  it  was  maintained  for 
several  successive  seasons.  The  varied  and  ar- 
duous duties  which  Macready's  station  then  im- 
posed, however,  were  never  suffered  to  interfere 
with  his  personal  studies,  the  daily  ripening  of  his 
judgment,  and  the  progressive  refinement  of  his 
taste,  which  were  continually  evinced  in  the  in- 
creasing depth  and  mellowness  of  his  style. 

One  apparently  insignificant  trait  in  his  Hamlet 
will  best  exhibit  the  self-correcting  power  of  Ma- 
cready's genius,  and  the  fidelity  to  truth  and 
Nature  which  study  may  develop  in  the  best-con- 
stituted minds.  His  early  manner  in  returning 
the  skull  of  Yorick  to  its  earthly  home  was  an 
inadvertent  act  of  juvenile  extravagance,  founded 
on  the  merely  physical  aversion  of  the  senses  to 
the  loathsome  object  in  his  hand ;  he  literally 
tossed  it  over  his  back  to  the  gravedigger.  But 
reflection  soon  suggested  the  quiet  and  subdued 
style  of  acquitting  himself  in  this  passage  which 
afterward  formed  a  more  consistent  treatment  of 
the  business  of  the  scene. 

The  mention  of  this  fact,  familiar  to  those  who 
saw  Macready  in  his  youth,  suggests,  by  mere 
association,  the  manner  of  our  own  eminent  tra- 
gedian, Forrest,  in  the  same  passage.  Paragraph- 
ists  too  often  echo  each  other's  criticisms  without 


MACREADY'S  IMITATION  OF  KEAN. 

observing  for  themselves,  and  those  who  merely 
repeated  the  objections  to  Forrest's  style  of  act- 
ing, that  it  was  all  physical  force,  might  have  de- 
rived a  most  impressive  rebuke  from  his  manner 
in  this  scene.  He  carefully  handed  the  relic  back 
to  the  gravedigger,  like  one  conveying  a  frail  but 
precious  vessel  which  heedlessness  might  drop  or 
injure.  The  effect  was  touching  in  the  extreme; 
it  bespoke  all  the  gentleness  and  affectionate  re- 
gard of  the  prince  for  him  who  had  "borne  him 
on  his  back  a  thousand  times."  One  could  not 
help  contrasting  the  tenderness  of  Hamlet  as  he 
almost  reverentially  returned  the  skull,  holding 
it  in  both  hands,  with  the  rough,  abrupt,  jocular 
manner  of  the  gravedigger,  who  in  an  ebullition 
of  humor  generally  gave  the  skull  a  good-natured 
slap  of  familiarity  as  he  said,  "A  pestilence  on  him 
for  a  mad  rogue.!  He  poured  a  flagon  of  Rhenish 
on  my  head  once." 

I  have  before  referred  to  the  fact  that  Macready 
was  introduced  to  the  London  stage  at  a  period 
when  the  impassioned  style  of  Kean  had  given  an 
undue  bias  to  public  taste,  and  that  it  led  him  in 
some  respects  to  abandon  his  simplicity  and  truth 
to  Nature,  and  to  assume  a  more  premeditated 
and  intensified  manner.  But  let  critics  determine 
whether  his  example  ought  not  to  suggest  to 
young  aspirants  for  professional  distinction  the 
value  of  attentive  and  habitual  study  founded  on 
careful  observation  of  the  various  elements  which 
make  up  the  sum-total  of  the  actor's  art. 

I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  those  who  ques- 

22*  R 


258  MACREADY'S  PARTICULARITY. 

tioned  the  power  and  genius  of  Macready,  and 
objected  to  his  anxiety  about  details  of  propriety 
on  the  part  of  subordinate  performers.  But  it 
should  never  be  forgotten  that  in  this  country  he 
was  always  seen  at  a  disadvantage,  on  account 
of  the  absence  of  those  minor  appointments 
which,  when  complete,  give  smoothness  and  finish 
to  the  effects  of  the  stage,  and  that  he  was  seldom 
sustained  by  persons  habituated  to  his  manner. 
The  case  very  much  resembles  that  of  an  individual 
accustomed  to  every  luxury  of  life  in  its  highest 
perfection  who  is  suddenly  required  to  accommo- 
date himself  to  a  scanty  supply  of  homely  fare. 
Macready's  high  conceptions  of  ideal  excellence 
in  every  point  of  detail,  and  his  rigor  of  stage- 
discipline,  not  to  speak  of  the  deplorable  dulness 
of  the  material  he  had  sometimes  to  mould,  often 
created  a  prejudice  against  him,  and  a  feeling  that 
he  was  prone  to  harshness.  It  is  too  apt  to  be 
forgotten  that  one  who  has  spent  a  life  in  the  pro- 
cess of  training  stage-subordinates  is  not  likely  to 
excel  in  the  good  gift  of  patience.  It  would  need 
something  more  than  the  amount  of  equanimity 
usually  bestowed  upon  mere  mortals  to  enable 
a  conscientious,  thoroughly-trained  actor,  when 
wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  inspiration  and 
effect,  to  bear  calmly  one  of  those  ridiculous  blun- 
ders which  draw  tears  of  laughter  instead  of  sor- 
row from  the  eyes  of  sympathetic  spectators. 

The  genuine  humanity  of  Macready  was  attest- 
ed by  the  kind  attention  and  generous  aid  which 
in  his  early  days  he  bestowed  upon  those  of  his 


EDWIN  FORREST.  259 

father's  company  who  were  afflicted  by  illness  or 
other  misfortune,  and  his  liberal  contributions  at 
all  times  to  charitable  funds  of  a  professional 
character. 

When  playing  on  one  occasion  at  an  English 
provincial  theatre,  the  manager  (who  seems  to 
have  been  a  judicious  reformer)-  deducted  one 
guinea,  at  the  payment  of  the  stipulated  compen- 
sation of  the  actor,  as  the  established  fine  for  the 
use  of  a  profane  word  at  rehearsal.  The  trage- 
dian acceded  with  great  cheerfulness  to  the  deduc- 
tion, acknowledging  its  propriety,  and  on  learn- 
ing that  such  fines  were  contributions  to  a  fund 
for  sick  and  indigent  actors,  he  handed  the  man- 
ager ten  guineas  more. 

FORREST. 

The  name  of  Edwin  Forrest  is  rendered  doubly 
interesting  to  the  lovers  of  the  drama  among  us 
from  the  fact  that  he  was  the  first  American  actor 
whose  performances  in  tragedy  received  a  com- 
plimentary recognition  beyond  the  limits  of  our 
country.  His  early  histrionic  life  is  instructive 
as  an  instance  of  successful  self-culture  under 
great  disadvantages. 

It  is  well  known  that  Mr.  Forrest,  while  a  mere 
youth,  was  carried  by  the  current  of  circumstances 
to  the  West,  where,  unaided  by  the  sympathetic 
recognition  of  leading  actors,  or  indeed  by  any- 
thing like  professional  training  from  others,  with 
his  native  vigor  of  mind  and  strength  of  will  he 


260  FORREST'S  EARLY  CAREER. 

struggled  triumphantly  through  all  opposing  cir- 
cumstances, and  laid  the  foundation  of  a  career 
as  brilliant  as  it  was  successful.  His  experiences 
at  that  time  were  undoubtedly  very  beneficial, 
giving  him  that  determined  action  and  energized 
expression  for  which  he  stood  unrivalled.  They 
forced  him  to  undertake  a  great  variety  of  parts, 
threw  him  entirely  on  his  own  resources,  and 
secured  him  against  the  adoption  of  a  weak  or 
secondary  style.  Their  effect  was  like  that  of  the 
sculptor:  they  marked  decidedly  the  lines  and 
projecting  surfaces  which  subsequent  art  was  to 
smooth  and  polish.  But  a  broader  field  opened 
before  him  when,  upon  his  return  to  the  sea- 
board cities,  working  with  characteristic  energy 
on  the  strong  material  of  his  own  nature,  he  de- 
veloped a  style  of  acting  which,  however  criti- 
cised, stamped  itself  at  once  upon  the  hearts  of 
his  audiences.  Advancing  years  served  to  give 
detail  and  finish  to  many  of  his  prominent  imper- 
sonations, and  every  succeeding  season  revealed 
new  beauties  of  execution  and  evidences  of  pro- 
foundest  study  in  all  that  most  required  mental 
penetration  and  artistic  skill.  The  impression 
which  hasty  and  superficial  criticism  at  one  time 
created,  that  he  was  suited  only  to  parts  in  which 
vehemence  was  to  be  expressed,  afterward  gave 
place  to  the  conviction  that  his  conception  of  the 
characters  in  which  he  appeared  was  studiously 
complete  and  his  representation  skilfully  sus- 
tained. The  fact  that  his  artistic  excellence  was 
acquired  by  self-cultivation  as  the  natural  result 


& 


•> 


HENDERSON'S  POWER    OF  MEMORY.        26l 

of  resolution  and  energy  but  increased  the  honor 
of  its  possession. 


EFFORTS  OF  MEMORY. 

One  of  the  many  evils  inseparable  from  the 
mode  of  management  peculiar  to  American  thea- 
tres is  the  necessity  imposed  upon  the  players  of 
overtaxing  their  memory  by  the  continual  study 
of  new  parts.  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  who 
was  well  acquainted  with  Henderson,  told  Sir 
Walter  Scott  that  his  power  of  memory  was  the 
most  wonderful  he  had  ever  met  with.  In  the 
philosopher's  presence  he  took  up  a  newspaper, 
and  after  reading  it  once  repeated  so  much  of  it 
that  Mr.  Stewart  considered  it  utterly  marvel- 
lous ;  and  when  he  expressed  his  surprise,  Hen- 
derson modestly  replied,  "  If  you  had  been  obliged, 
like  me,  to  depend  during  many  years  for  your 
daily  bread  on  getting  words  by  heart,  you  would 
not  be  astonished  that  the  habit  should  have  pro- 
duced this  facility." 

The  sufferings  of  the  young  and  ambitious  actor 
from  excessive  brain-toil  are  such  as  persons  out 
of  the  profession  can  scarcely  imagine.  During 
a  visit  of  Mr.  Cooper  to  Columbia,  S.  C.,  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  playing  subordinate  parts 
under  the  training  of  the  veteran  DeCamp,  Mr. 
Cooper  had  selected  for  his  benefit  at  the  close 
of  his  engagement  the  play  of  King  Henry  the 
Fourth.  But  on  the  day  before  the  performance 
a  member  of  the  company  who  was  to  play  Hot- 


262  A    YOUNG   ACTOR'S  DILEMMA. 

spur  was  taken  seriously  ill,  and  no  one  would 
assume  the  part  at  so  short  a  notice.  Mr.  Cooper 
was  anxious  to  gratify  his  friends  in  Columbia  by 
appearing  in  the  character  of  Falstaff,  and  felt  un- 
willing to  give  up  the  arrangement.  The  part 
allotted  to  the  sick  actor  was  at  length  proposed 
to  me,  and  I  agreed  to  assume  it,  with  the  under- 
standing that  I  should  be  allowed  to  read  the  part 
if  I  could  not  commit  it  to  memory  in  the  short 
time  which  remained.  Accordingly,  with  enthusi- 
asm, or  rather  with  impulsive  folly,  I  commenced 
the  study  at  the  close  of  my  professional  duty  that 
evening,  sat  up  all  night,  and  after  rehearsal  be- 
took myself  to  the  retirement  of  the  adjacent 
woods  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  with  the  book 
and  a  pincushion,  stinting  myself  to  half  a  dozen 
repetitions  (each  one  marked  by  the  transfer  of  a 
pin)  for  every  line  or  sentence.  When  the  even- 
ing came  I  swallowed  a  cup  of  tea  in  season  to 
dress,  and  made  my  appearance  in  due  time  and 
place  with  my  brain  in  an  intense  whirl.  But, 
nerved  to  the  effort,  it  held  out  till  the  excitement 
of  the  camp-scenes  came,  and  then  in  a  moment  I 
found  myself  bewildered  and  helpless  in  the  midst 
of  an  important  speech.  I  became  so  utterly  con- 
founded that  no  prompting  could  rally  me.  Real- 
izing the  predicament  in  which  I  was  placed,  I 
stepped  forward  and  explained  my  condition,  and, 
throwing  myself  on  the  generosity  of  the  audience, 
expressed  my  willingness,  if  it  should  be  desired, 
to  read  the  part.  This  liberty  obtained,  I  took  the 
book,  but  after  reading  half  a  dozen  lines  my 


MRS.    SIDDONS  *S  FRIGHT.  263 

recollection  returned,  and  laying  aside  the  volume 
I  proceeded  to  the  close  without  further  trouble. 
Half  an  hour's  study  of  physiology  at  that  period 
would  have  imparted,  with  much  greater  safety, 
the  lesson  I  had  learned  from  experience. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  intense  emotion  which 
the  preparation  of  a  part  not  unfrequently  excites 
I  am  reminded  of  an  incident  in  the  history  of  Mrs. 
Siddons.  Campbell  states  that  Mrs.  Siddons  had 
performed  Lady  Macbeth  in  the  provincial  theatres 
many  years  before  she  attempted  the  character  in 
London.  Adverting  to  the  first  time  this  part  was 
allotted  to  her,  she  said :  "  It  was  my  custom  to 
study  my  characters  at  night,  when  all  the  domes- 
tic cares  and  business  of  the  day  were  over.  On 
the  night  preceding  that  in  which  I  was  to  appear 
in  this  part  for  the  first  time  I  shut  myself  up, 
as  usual,  when  all  the  family  had  retired,  and 
commenced  my  study  of  Lady  Macbeth.  As  the 
character  is  very  short,  I  thought  I  should  soon 
accomplish  it.  Being  then  only  twenty  years  of 
age,  I  believed,  as  many  others  do,  that  little  more 
was  necessary  than  to  get  the  words  into  my 
head ;  for  the  necessity  of  discrimination  and  the 
development  of  character  at  that  time  of  my  life 
had  scarcely  entered  into  my  imagination.  But 
to  proceed :  I  went  on  with  tolerable  composure 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  (a  night  I  can  never 
forget)  till  I  came  to  the  assassination-scene,  when 
its  horrors  rose  to  a  degree  that  made  it  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  get  further.  I  snatched  up  the  candle 
and  hurried  out  of  the  room  in  a  paroxysm  of 


264  TRUE  ACTING   NOT  MIMETIC. 

terror.  My  dress  was  of  silk,  and  the  rustling  of 
it,  as  I  ascended  the  stairs  to  go  to  bed,  seemed 
to  my  panicstruck  fancy  like  the  movement  of  a 
spectre  pursuing  me.  At  last  I  reached  my  cham- 
ber, where  I  found  my  husband  fast  asleep.  I  clap- 
ped my  candlestick  down  upon  the  table,  without 
the  power  of  putting  the  candle  out,  and  threw 
myself  on  my  bed,  without  daring  to  stay  even  to 
take  off  my  clothes.  At  peep  of  day  I  rose  to  re- 
sume my  task,  but  so  little  did  I  know  of  my  part 
when  I  appeared  in  it  at  night  that  my  shame  and 
confusion  cured  me  of  procrastinating  any  busi- 
ness for  the  remainder  of  my  life." 

There  is  no  doubt  much  difference  in  the  degree 
of  susceptibility  possessed  by  different  individuals, 
and  perhaps  none  but  an  experienced  player  can 
tell  how  far  he  may  be  at  once  in  the  spirit  of  his 
part  and  yet  conscious  of  surrounding  circum- 
stances. But  true  acting  is  not  that  superficial 
or  mimetic  matter  which  it  is  often  thought  to  be. 
It  is  to  the  imagination  a  deep  reality,  even  when 
Reason  holds  the  balance  between  judgment  and 
feeling,  and  is  not,  as  in  the  instance  to  which  I 
have  referred,  frightened  for  the  time  from  her 
propriety. 

My  friend,  Mr.  Edwin  Thayer,  who  possessed 
a  poetic  temperament,  and  was  indeed  quite  a 
rhymer,  used  to  claim  for  me  also  a  talent  for 
making  verses,  and  to  prove  it  frequently  related 
a  story  the  substance  of  which  was,  that  not  long 
after  my  first  appearance  on  the  stage,  one  night 
at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  I  was 


AN  IMPROMPTU  POET.  26$ 

announced  to  recite  a  poem,  then  a  great  favor- 
ite with  the  public,  entitled  "The  Sailor  Boy's 
Dream."  Fearing  that  the  prompter,  who  was 
old  and  nervous,  might  fail  to  render  me  such 
service  as  I  felt  very  sure  I  should  require,  I 
asked  Thayer  to  stand  in  the  wing  with  the  man- 
uscript in  his  hand  and  watch  the  recitation  word 
by  word.  He  consented,  and  took  the  prompter's 
place,  and  I  went  on,  made  my  bow,  and  began 
the  poem.  I  was  a  little  flustered  at  first,  but 
soon  recovered  self-possession,  gaining  confidence 
at  every  line  and  warming  up  as  my  subject  was 
developed.  At  the  climax  of  the  terrible  wreck, 
however,  as  I  struck  the  attitude  of  horror,  I  sud- 
denly felt  the  ground  swimming  under  me  and  all 
my  blood  seemed  tending  to  my  brain.  I  stole  a 
glance  at  Thayer,  who  was  standing  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  manuscript,  but  he  did  not  look  at 
me.  Clapping  my  hands  to  my  head,  I  started 
forward  with  my  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  be- 
gan a  wild  apostrophe  to  the  dread  power  of  the 
"  Storm  King,"  altogether  unconscious  of  what  I 
said,  while  word  after  word  poured  from  my  lips 
in  a  vehement  torrent,  until  I  brought  the  stanza 
to  an  end  amid  a  burst  of  hearty  and  prolonged 
applause.  As  my  excitement  subsided  the  miss- 
ing words  returned,  and,  wellnigh  exhausted  with 
the  conflict  between  memory  and  emotion,  I  fin- 
ished my  recitation  and  bowed  myself  off.  Scarce- 
ly was  I  out  of  sight  of  the  audience  when  Thayer 
cried  out,  in  a  tone  of  wonder  and  admiration, 
"  Where  did  you  get  that  other  verse  ?" — "  Why, 

23 


266  AN  HIATUS   TO  FILL. 

didn't  you  prompt  me  ?"  said  I. — "  Prompt  you  !" 
he  exclaimed;  "you  never  did  better  in  your  life. 
Where  did  you  get  the  new  lines?" — "Why,"  I 
replied,  "I  forgot  the  words,  and  in  my  fright  I 
spoke  what  came  uppermost,  and  don't  know 
what  I  said." — "Neither  do  I,"  said  Thayer;  "but, 
words  or  no  words,  accent  and  rhythm  were 
perfect,  and  the  effect  was  fine.  You  must  try  and 
recall  those  words."  But  I  felt  that  they  had  fled 
to  the  chaos  from  which  they  came,  never  to  return, 
unless  perhaps  in  some  recurrence  of  that  fearful 
delirium  called  "  stage- fright,"  which  is  more  apt 
to  paralyze  the  tongue  than  to  keep  it  in  motion. 
About  the  year  1833,  when  Mr.  Charles  Kem- 
ble  and  his  daughter,  Miss  Fanny  Kemble,  were 
acting  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadel- 
phia, I  was  playing  at  the  Arch  Street  in  the 
same  city.  The  gentleman  employed  to  perform 
the  "juvenile  characters"  at  the  former  establish- 
ment having  retired  from  the  stage,  I  was  induced 
to  relinquish  my  situation  and  become  his  succes- 
sor. Before  I  had  time,  however,  to  familiarize 
myself  with  the  manner  of  the  distinguished  per- 
formers I  was  engaged  to  support,  I  was  cast  for 
Leonardo  in  Knowles's  play  of  The  Wife.  It  was 
the  first  night  of  the  play,  and  my  part  an  import- 
ant one.  I  was  therefore  more  than  usually  ner- 
vous, and,  striving  to  be  correct  in  the  delivery  of 
the  language,  may  have  been  lacking  in  the  fervor 
of  a  lover.  Miss  Kemble  rallied  me  on  the  form- 
ality of  my  manner,  saying  that  I  treated  my  lady- 
love as  if  I  thought  her  "  a  widow  bewitched."  Im- 


MRS.  MARY  DUFF.  267 

pressed  with  this  criticism,  I  determined  that  the 
next  time  I  should  act  as  her  lover  I  would  not  be 
chargeable  with  insensibility.  A  short  time  there- 
after I  was  acting  in  the  character  of  Bassanio, 
Miss  Kemble  representing  that  of  Portia,  and, 
having  chosen  the  casket,  I  opened  it  and  read 
the  words  upon  the  scroll,  which  conclude — 

Then  turn  thee  where  thy  lady  is, 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss; 

which  I  instantly  did,  with  all  becoming  respect, 
but  with  such  a  degree  of  fervor  that  the  sound 
of  the  salute  caused  quite  a  sensation  in  the  au- 
dience. Whereat  Miss  Kemble  was  somewhat 
annoyed,  and  took  occasion  to  say,  "  It  is  possible 
to  exceed  the  letter  of  a  lesson ;"  by  which  I  sup- 
pose she  intended  to  intimate  that  I  was  rather 
"  an  apt  scholar."  As  I  did  not  exceed  the  limits 
of  propriety,  however,  in  obeying  the  injunction 
of  the  scroll,  the  fair  Portia  forgave  my  ardor, 
and  probably  soon  forgot  the  effect  upon  the 
audience,  which  had  at  the  moment  disconcert- 
ed her. 

Mrs.  Mary  Duff,  probably  the  most  excellent 
tragic  actress  of  the  old  school  in  America,  was 
a  woman  of  great  amiability  of  disposition,  but 
of  eccentric  habits.  She  had  an  exceedingly  ner- 
vous temperament,  and,  from  the  suffering  it  in- 
flicted on  her,  became  addicted  to  the  use  of 
opium. 

In  1834  she  played  a  short  engagement  at  the 
Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  where,  in 

23* 


268  SOUND,   NOT  SENSE. 

connection  with  one  of  her  performances,  I  have 
a  distinct  recollection  of  a  circumstance  which  led 
me  into  a  "stage-dilemma." 

The  old  tragedy  of  Isabella;  or.  The  Fatal 
Marriage,  was  to  be  played.  Mr.  William  B. 
Wood  was  to  sustain  the  character  of  Biron,  and 
Mrs.  Duff  that  of  Isabella,  while  I  was  to  perform 
the  part  of  Villeroy.  I  had  never  seen  the  play, 
and,  from  some  circumstances  which  I  cannot  now 
recall,  the  notice  I  had  received  was  so  very  short 
that  I  found  it  impossible  to  commit  to  memory 
more  than  a  portion  of  the  words.  It  was  sug- 
gested, however,  that  I  might  "  cut  the  part  down 
to  lines,"  as  it  is  termed,  and  this  I  determined  to 
do ;  and,  after  obtaining  such  ideas  as  I  could 
gather  from  the  prompter's  book  in  relation  to 
the  "  situations  "  and  "  business  "  of  the  scenes,  I 
went  home  to  commit  to  memory  as  much  of  the 
curtailed  words  as  I  could  learn  in  the  two  or 
three  hours  that  remained  before  the  time  fixed 
for  the  performance. 

There  is  an  old  professional  saying  which  runs, 
"Trust  to  luck  to  get  you  through,  for  ten  o'clock 
must  come ;"  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  realized 
the  fact  that  seven  o'clock  had  come.  In  a  state 
of  great  nervous  excitement  I  soon  found  myself 
participating  in  a  dialogue  of  which  I  knew  little 
more  than  what  was  suggested  by  those  portions 
of  it  to  which  I  was  to  reply,  but  with  the  aid  of 
the  prompter  and  occasional  hints  furnished  by 
the  other  performers,  I  continued  to  keep  up  my 
part  of  the  action  of  the  play.  The  Fatal  Mar- 


AN  IMPROVISED   SPEECH.  269 

riage  is  an  old-fashioned  tragedy.  Its  movement 
is  slow,  and  the  acting  of  Mr.  Wood  and  Mrs.  Duff 
on  this  occasion  was  much  after  the  conventional 
style  peculiar  to  the  past  century;  and  having 
caught  the  undulating  swing  of  the  poetry  I  pro- 
ceeded in  deliberate  and  measured  tones,  not 
unfrequently  improvising  whole  paragraphs  and 
uttering  sentences  which  savored  much  more  of 
sound  than  sense,  thus  verifying  a  statement  made 
by  Dr.  Rush  in  his  Philosophy  of  the  Voice,  that  "  a 
person  with  a  quick  poetic  ear  and  a  free  com- 
mand of  language  will  find  no  difficulty  in  car- 
rying on,  for  any  duration,  an  extempore  stress- 
ful rhythmus  of  incoherent  words  or  phrases." 

In  the  third  act,  in  the  midst  of  the  festivities 
incident  to  his  marriage,  Villeroy  exclaims — 

My  dearest  Isabella,  you  must  hear 

The  rapture  of  my  friends. 

Thy  virtues  have  diffused  themselves  around, 

And  made  them  all  as  happy  as  myself. 

Come,  Isabella,  let  us  lead  the  way ; 

Within  we'll  speak  our  welcome  to  our  friends, 

And  crown  the  happy  festival  with  joy. 

I  have  now,  and  I  think  I  shall  always  have,  a 
distinct  recollection  of  the  words  I  delivered  in- 
stead of  the  text.  They  were — 

Come,  come,  my  dearest  Isabella,  come — 
My  newly-won  and  loving,  long-sought  love ! 
Let  us  within,  and  there,  'mid  wine  and  song, 
And  hearty  offerings  of  our  happy  friends, 
We'll  cap  the  climax  of  our  doubtful  joys! 


270  MR.   PRESTON'S  STORY. 


A  STORY  OF  RICHARD   M.  JOHNSON. 

The  performer  by  force  of  imagination  may 
lose  self-consciousness,  while  the  auditor  may  be 
made  to  forget  he  is  sitting  at  a  play.  Of  the 
many  striking  effects  of  Miss  Fanny  Kemble's 
powers  in  tragedy  recorded  in  histrionic  annals, 
I  know  of  none  more  remarkable,  as  having  re- 
sulted in  the  entire  abstraction  of  an  auditor, 
than  the  following  instance. 

I  have  before  referred  to  Hon.  William  C.  Pres- 
ton, Senator  from  South  Carolina  and  president 
of  Columbia  College,  as  a  practical  elocutionist  as 
well  as  a  distinguished  orator.  He  used  to  take 
great  pleasure  in  relating  the  following  incident, 
the  points  of  which  he  had  received  from  the  Hon. 
John  Quincy  Adams.  "  Mr.  Adams  was  fond  of  the 
drama,  and  often  might  be  seen,"  said  Mr.  Pres- 
ton, "in  attendance  at  the  Washington  theatre, 
where  his  bald  head  was  a  conspicuous  object 
among  many  other  distinguished  lovers  of  good 
acting.  He  always  preferred  to  occupy  a  com- 
fortable seat  in  what  was  termed  in  olden  time 
the  pit ;  there  he  could  see  and  hear  better  than 
in  any  other  part  of  the  house,  and  moreover  was 
not  liable  to  be  disturbed  by  people  coming  and 
going  during  the  play  or  between  the  acts,  the 
peculiar  character  and  arrangement  of  the  seats 
being  such  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  per- 
sons passing  readily  between  or  over  them  when 
occupied.  One  night  Mr.  Adams  was  seated  in 


AN  ABSORBED  AUDIENCE.  2/1 

his  favorite  place  in  company  with  Hon.  Richard 
M.  Johnson  of  Kentucky.  The  play  was  Fazio, 
with  Mr.  and  Miss  Kemble  in  the  principal  cha- 
racters. It  was  a  benefit-night,  and  the  house 
was  crowded  with  the  most  celebrated  and  fash- 
ionable people  of  the  Capitol  City,  prominent 
among  whom  was  the  well-known  and  univer- 
sally admired  matronly  belle  or  interestingly 
young-old  lady,  Mrs.  Madison.  Mr.  Adams  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  play,  but  found  time 
occasionally  to  observe  the  impression  it  was 
making  on  Mr.  Johnson,  whose  impulsive  na- 
ture required  an  admonitory  hand  now  and  then 
to  keep  him  in  his  seat,  from  which  he  would 
occasionally  start  with  sudden  abruptness  at  some 
unusually  effective  passage  in  the  acting  of  Miss 
Kemble,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  entire  pos- 
session of  that  gentleman's  faculties,  so  thorough- 
ly was  he  absorbed  in  the  trials  and  sufferings  of 
the  character  she  was  representing.  The  last 
scene  of  the  tragedy  was  on,  and  the  audience 
had  become  completely  engrossed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  lifelike  acting  of  the  heroine.  It 
had  reached  its  climax:  the  frantic  shrieks  of 
the  heartbroken  Bianca  rang  through  the  theatre, 
while  the  curtain  slowly  descended  and  shut  out 
the  sorrows  of  the  mimic  world.  Then  the  peo- 
ple, gradually  recovering  from  the  sad  impres- 
sions of  the  tragedy,  began,  as  usual,  to  observe 
the  state  of  things  in  front  of  the  curtain.  '  But/ 
in  the  words  of  Mr.  Adams,  'there  sat  Johnson 
perfectly  entranced,  wholly  unconscious  of  every- 


272  A    GENUINE    COMPLIMENT. 

thing  around  him,  his  head  rigidly  bent  forward, 
with  his  hands  clapped  down  on  his  knees,  his 
hair  all  disordered  from  the  previous  spasmodic 
clutchings  of  his  fingers,  his  eyes  flashing  and 
fixed  steadily  on  the  green  curtain  before  him, 
which  a  few  moments  before  had  fallen  on  the 
frenzied  and  unearthly  screams  of  the  exhausted 
actress,  the  sound  of  whose  voice  seemed  still 
to  be  ringing  in  his  ears.'  As  the  strange  figure 
was  attracting  the  attention  of  the  people  around 
him  in  a  manner  that  was  not  pleasant  to  Mr. 
Adams,  he  placed  his  hand  on  Mr.  Johnson's 
shoulder,  and,  shaking  him  gently,  said,  '  Come, 
Johnson,  come — the  play  is  over.'  Thus  aroused, 
he  started  abruptly  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed  in 
an  audible  voice  and  in  the  most  energetic  man- 
ner, '  By  Heavens,  Adams !  she's  a  horse  !  she's 
a  horse  !' — '  Now,'  said  Mr.  Adams,  who  perfectly 
understood  Johnson's  eccentric  manners,  and  who 
enjoyed  the  whole  affair  in  his  quiet  way,  'those 
who  did  not  know  the  distinguished  Kentuckian's 
passionate  love  for  horses  might  think  this  a  very 
rude  thing  to  say  about  a  lady ;  but  as  a  fine  horse 
to  him  was  one  of  the  grandest  and  most  beau- 
tiful objects  on  earth,  the  honorable  gentleman, 
enchanted  as  he  was  with  her  acting,  could  not, 
in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  have  paid  Miss 
Kemble  a  more  genuine  compliment  or  express- 
ed his  unbounded  admiration  in  a  more  natural 


manner.' ' 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

y  UNI  US  BRUTUS  BOOTH  AND   EDWIN  FORREST 
AS  READERS. 

T  HAVE  been  led  by  experience  to  believe  that 
•*•  actors  generally  consider  the  study  of  elocu- 
tion unnecessary  as  a  preparation  for  the  practice 
of  the  dramatic  art.  This  is  doubtless  owing  to 
the  fact  that  they  do  not  clearly  understand  what 
is  involved  in  the  end  and  aim  of  the  principles 
of  vocal  culture.  The  opinion  is  quite  prevalent 
that  elocution  means  reading  by  arbitrary  rules 
and  following  certain  prescribed  grooves ;  but  this 
is  altogether  a  mistake.  I  have  before  remarked 
that  each  individual  has  his  own  characteristic  way 
of  speaking,  and  this  arises  from  his  native  organ- 
ism and  acquired  habits. 

There  is,  as  before  stated,  a  proneness  in  human 
beings  to  imitate  not  only  the  sounds  of  Nature,  to 
which  the  origin  of  language  can  be  traced,  but 
also  to  reproduce  the  .quality  of  voice  and  kind 
of  utterance  peculiar  to  others  which  may  have 
attracted  their  attention  as  being  more  pleasing, 
or  more  showy  perhaps,  than  their  own  modes  of 
speech.  A  child  by  imitating  the  lisp  or  other 
peculiarity  of  a  playmate  is  liable  to  catch  the 

3  273 


274          ELOCUTION  AS   USUALLY   TAUGHT. 

infection,  as  it  does  the  measles.  In  childhood 
voices  in  most  cases  show  the  nature  and  dispo- 
sition of  the  individual,  but  too  often  advancing 
life  brings  affectations,  from  the  whine  of  the 
hypocrite  to  the  tones  of  assumed  gayety,  lev- 
ity, or  indifference.  Such  modes  of  speech  be- 
come what  we  call  "  natural,"  in  the  same  man- 
ner that  our  walk  or  our  gestures,  or  even  our 
way  of  thinking,  may  be  falsely  termed  our  "  nat- 
ural "  way. 

But  there  is  really  more  of  indifference  than 
ignorance  in  the  manner  of  disposing  of  this  sub- 
ject. It  is  not  my  intention,  however,  to  dwell 
upon  the  matter,  and  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from 
saying  just  here  that  elocution,  as  it  is  imperfectly 
taught,  consists  simply  of  a  mechanical  training 
of  the  faculties  with  regard  to  articulation,  inflec- 
tion, accent,  and  emphasis.  When  the  pupil  has 
acquired  all  the  knowledge  which  the  textbooks 
contain,  he  is  told  that  he  must  make  the  subject- 
matter  his  own ;  that  is,  that  he  must  enter  into 
the  spirit  of  the  author  and  depend  on  feeling 
to  give  fitting  expression  to  his  language.  The 
teacher  is  expected  to  enforce  this  instruction  by 
illustrating  the  proper  method  of  reading  or  re- 
cital, and  then  to  charge  the  pupil  to  reproduce 
the  manner  indicated  in  the  example.  How  can 
the  object  of  such  teaching  be  attained  unless  the 
organs  of  articulation  and  vocality,  by  primary 
discipline,  are  trained  to  acquire  a  correct  and 
easy  execution  of  all  the  mechanical  offices  of 
speech  ?  Thus,  and  thus  only,  can  a  teacher  faith- 


JUNIUS  BRUTUS  BOOTH'S  READING.       275 

fully  and  certainly  impart  to  others  the  knowledge 
he  may  himself  possess. 

When  the  human  voice  is  cultivated  on  the 
principles  laid  down  by  Dr.  James  Rush,  and 
those  principles  are  reduced  to  rules  in  accordance 
with  the  intelligence  and  taste  of  the  teacher,  our 
young  speakers  will  be  more  like  themselves  than, 
as  they  so  often  are  now,  like  the  persons  who 
teach  them.  Let  there  be  less  prejudice  and  more 
philosophy  in  our  formulas  concerning  instruction 
in  speech,  and  we  shall  have  in  abundance  what  is 
now  so  rare  in  its  true  sense — the  blessed  boon 
of  originality. 

BOOTH'S  READING. 

Dr.  Rush  has  made  elocution  a  science,  and  has 
referred  to  Mrs.  Siddons  and  the  elder  Booth  as 
having  exhibited  that  perfection  in  speech  attain- 
able by  the  application  of  principles  and  natural 
expression  to  reading  and  dramatic  and  orator- 
ical delivery. 

I  have  before  referred  to  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Booth's  great  charm  in  acting  was  the  result  of 
his  imaginative  powers,  and  I  will  here  add  that 
he  had  also  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  qualities 
of  sound  and  the  laws  of  speech  by  which  words 
are  made  an  echo  of  the  sense  or  sentiment  they 
are  used  to  express.  He  studied  elocution — 
whether  from  books  or  from  Nature  it  is  not 
necessary  to  inquire,  but  he  knew  its  importance 
to  the  acquisition  of  a  just  and  effective  stage- 


276    THE  DEFICIENCIES   OF    YOUNG   ACTORS. 

delivery,  and  he  was  well  acquainted  with  its  ap- 
plication to  the  less  demonstrative  attributes  of 
sentential  enunciation,  inflection,  and  the  use  of 
pause  and  emphasis.  Speaking  of  the  lack  of  an 
elementary  knowledge  of  vocality,  particularly  on 
the  part  of  young  actors,  he  said :  "  They  look  at 
acting  as  a  mechanical  matter;  they  copy  the 
facial  expression,  attitude  of  the  body,  and  move- 
ment of  the  hands  of  some  favorite  actor,  and  try 
to  imitate  his  voice,  in  the  lump,  as  it  were,  with- 
out understanding  or  appreciating  the  value  of 
individual  words.  In  fact,  it  never  appears  to 
strike  them  that  a  word  has,  in  a  certain  sense, 
the  quality  of  hardness  or  softness,  roundness  or 
sharpness,  extension  or  contraction — a  capacity 
for  elevation  or  depression,  and  all  the  forces  of 
sound  from  the  hum  of  a  bee  to  the  blow  of  a 
sledge-hammer.  And,  more  than  all  this,"  said  the 
poet-actor,  "  they  forget  that  words  are  vehicles 
for  tones  as  well  as  thoughts,  and  are  capable  of 
exhibiting  in  utterance  all  the  colors  of  sound, 
from  the  sombre  note  of  the  bassoon  to  the  scar- 
let tone  of  the  trumpet,  with  every  variety  of  tint 
that  can  be  produced  by  the  violin."  Such  was 
Mr.  Booth's  idea  of  vocal  capacity  and  power,  and 
to  such  knowledge  did  he  owe  his  masterly  exe- 
cution in  giving  form  and  color  to  syllabic  sounds. 
One  day  he  happened  to  enter  a  room  where 
several  gentlemen  were  finishing  a  bottle  of  sherry 
after  dinner,  and  enjoying  a  social  smoke.  They 
were  at  the  moment  engaged  in  an  earnest  and 
rather  noisy  discussion  of  some  local  political 


BOOTH  READING    THE  "ANCIENT  MARINER." 

question,  which,  after  a  cordial  greeting  to  Booth, 
was  resumed,  and,  "  being  in  the  vein,"  he  dashed 
into  the  argument  with  them.  Having,  in  the 
course  of  his  remarks,  made  some  very  original 
and  peculiar  statements,  of  which  an  explanation 
was  requested,  he  took  up  a  copy  of  Coleridge's 
Ancient  Mariner  which  happened  to  be  lying  on 
the  table,  and  said  that  the  thoughts  he  had  en- 
deavored to  express  might  perhaps  be  illustrated 
by  some  passages  in  that  poem.  Then,  in  a  sort 
of  dreamy  abstraction,  he  began,  half  reading  and 
half  reciting,  the  opening  stanzas,  until,  apparently 
forgetting  himself  and  his  companions  (who  were 
quite  familiar  with  his  singular  moods),  he  seemed 
to  become  gradually  transformed  into  the  weird 
mariner  with  the  glittering  eye.  The  room  in 
which  the  discussion  of  facts  and  politics  had 
but  a  few  moments  before  exercised  and  sharpened 
the  wits  of  his  auditors  now  appeared  to  be  the 
deck  of  the  ill-fated  ship,  and  his  friends,  yielding 
to  the  overpowering  influences  of  his  magic  tones, 
with  elbows  fixed  upon  the  table  and  eyes  riveted 
on  the  reader,  felt  themselves,  in  some  mysterious 
manner,  transported  to  the  midst  of  the  terrible 
scene  so  vividly  portrayed.  They  saw  the  slimy 
sea,  and  the  slimy  things  which  crawled  upon  its 
surface ;  they  felt  their  tongues  withered  and  their 
throats  parched  with  the  burning  drought ;  they 
heard  the  four  times  fifty  men  as,  one  by  one, 
each  fell  a  lifeless  lump  upon  the  rotting  deck; 
and  they  read  the  horrible  curse  in  the  dead  men's 
stony  eyes, — until  at  length,  as  he  finished  the 

24 


278  GOULD  ON  BOOTH'S  READING. 

wonderful  recital  and  closed  the  book,  his  en- 
chanted listeners  slowly  awoke  as  from  a  dread- 
ful dream,  and  of  each  of  them,  as  of  the  wedding- 
guest,  it  might  have  been  said, 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn ; 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  woke  the  morrow  morn. 

In  such  effects  the  reader  and  the  actor  prove  the 
influence  of  the  imagination  over  the  will,  and  that 
the  qualities  of  expressive  vocality  are  far  more 
important  in  tragic  action  than  grace  of  gesture 
or  personal  bearing. 

The  pantomimic  power  of  Garrick  in  deline- 
ating the  passions,  great  as  we  are  told  it  was, 
could  not  have  thrilled  the  beholder  with  such 
soul -stirring  sensations  as  Booth's  impassioned 
vocal  effects  produced  on  his  hearers  when  he 
was  glowing  with  the  fervor  of  the  Tragic  Muse. 

Mr.  Thomas  R.  Gould,  in  his  work  called  The 
Tragedian,  which  I  read  with  delight  long  after 
I  had  written  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Booth  as  an 
actor  and  a  man,  says  of  him :  "  The  airy  con- 
densation of  his  temperament  found  fullest  ex- 
pression in  his  voice.  Sound  and  capacious 
lungs,  a  vascular  and  fibrous  throat,  clearness 
and  amplitude  in  the  interior  mouth  and  nasal 
passages,  formed  its  physical  basis.  Words 
are  weak,  but  the  truth  of  those  we  shall  employ 
in  an  endeavor  to  suggest  that  voice  will  be  felt 
by  multitudes  who  have  been  thrilled  by  its  living 


BOOTH'S  PECULIAR    CHARM  OF    VOICE.    279 

tones — deep,  massive,  resonant,  many-stringed, 
changeful,  vast  in  volume,  of  marvellous  flexibil- 
ity and  range,  delivering  with  ease  and  power  of 
instant  and  total  interchange  trumpet-tones,  bell- 
tones,  tones  like  the  '  sound  of  many  waters/  like 
the  muffled  and  confluent  'roar  of  bleak-grown 
pines.'  But  no  analogies  in  art  or  Nature,  and 
especially  no  indication  of  its  organic  structure 
and  physical  conditions,  could  reveal  the  inner 
secret  of  its  charm.  This  charm  lay  in  the  mind 
of  which  his  voice  was  the  organ — a  '  most  mirac- 
ulous organ/  under  the  sway  of  a  thoroughly  in- 
forming mind.  The  chest  voice  became  a  foun- 
tain of  passion  and  emotion.  The  head  register 
gave  the  '  clear,  silver,  icy,  keen,  awakening  tones ' 
of  the  pure  intellect.  And  as  the  imagination 
stands,  with  its  beautiful  and  comforting  face,  be- 
tween heart  and  brain,  and  marries  them  with  a 
benediction,  giving  glow  to  the  thoughts  and  form 
to  the  emotions,  so  there  arose  in  this  intuitive 
actor  a  third  element  of  voice,  hard  to  define,  but 
of  a  fusing,  blending,  kindling  quality,  which  we 
may  name  the  imaginative,  which  appeared  now 
in  some  single  word,  now  with  the  full  diapason 
of  tones  in  some  memorable  sentence,  and  which 
distinguished  him  as  an  incomparable  speaker  of 
the  English  tongue.  That  voice  was  guided  by 
a  method  which  defied  the  .set  rules  of  elocution. 
It  transcended  music.  It  '  brought  airs  from  heav- 
en and  blasts  from  hell/  It  struggled  and  smoth- 
ered in  the  pent-fires  of  passion,  or  darted  from 
them  as  in  tongues  of  flame.  It  was  '  the  earth- 


280          KUSH'S  ANALYSIS   OF   THE    VOICE. 

quake  voice  of  victory.'  It  was,  on  occasion,  full 
of  tears  and  heart-break.  Free  as  a  fountain, 
it  took  the  form  and  pressure  of  the  conduit 
thought,  and,  expressive  beyond  known  parallel 
in  the  voice  of  man,  it  suggested  more  than  it 
expressed." 

Such  a  strong  and  many-sided  presentation  of 
the  quality  of  Booth's  voice  might  seem  almost 
extravagant.  But  let  any  conscientious  seeker 
after  truth  with  a  taste  for  such  a  task  look  care- 
fully into  the  Philosophy  of  the  Voice,  and  it  must 
become  apparent  to  him  that  the  vocal  organs 
were  intended  to  express  every  sympathy  of  the 
soul.  The  physical  properties  of  the  tone-pro- 
ducing mechanism  are  shown  by  the  analysis  of 
Dr.  Rush  to  be  capable,  under  the  sway  of  the 
passions,  of  expressing  every  forcible,  every  del- 
icate, tunable  or  untunable,  sound  that  the  won- 
derful organism  of  the  ear  is  susceptible  of  hear- 
ing. That  which  shocks  the  nerve  and  distracts 
the  brain,  wraps  the  senses  in  delight  or  swells 
the  soul  with  rapture,  finds  a  sympathy,  simple 
or  subtle,  in  the  auditory  nerves.  When  the  pas- 
sions are  aroused  and  seek  utterance  in  articu- 
late or  inarticulate  sounds,  they  create  discord  or 
harmony  on  the  sympathetic  ear.  No  one  of  all  the 
orators  of  Greece  and  Rome,  nor  any  one  who  has 
been  fashioned  after  them  in  modern  times,  has 
probably  ever  portrayed  the  beauty,  truth,  and 
power  of  the  human  voice  as  they  were  displayed 
in  his  best  efforts  by  Booth.  Mr.  Gould,  himself 
an  artist,  and  evidently  of  a  poetic  temperament, 


EDWIN  FORREST'S  READING.  28 1 

felt  the  irresistible  something,  and  truly  said  it  was 
out  of  the  reach  of  elocution.  It  was  that  which 
is  sensible  to  the  spiritual  grasp,  as  when  the  soul 
is  held  in  thrall  by  the  subtle  magic  of  that  elec- 
tric power  which  Puck  boasted  of  when  he  said, 

I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes. 

Who  can  give  form  or  sound  to  the  music  of 
the  spheres,  the  roar  of  ocean,  or  Niagara's  thun- 
der? yet  have  we  not  within  ourselves  something 
that  interprets  them  through  the  sensitive  organs 
which  throb  and  pulsate  within  us  when  under 
the  domination  of  the  mighty  and  wonderful  in 
Nature? 

FORREST'S   READING. 

In  striking  contrast  with  what  has  been  said  of 
Mr.  Booth  were  the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Edwin 
Forrest.  Mr.  White,  who  first  formed  Forrest's 
manner  out  of  the  usual  schoolboy  style  of  read- 
ing, was  a  man  of  great  intelligence  and  culture 
in  his  art,  but  eccentric,  enthusiastic,  and  very  ego- 
tistical. In  his  idea  of  delivery  the  principal  thing 
was  emphasis,  and  at  this  he  labored  and  pounded 
with  every  kind  and  degree  of  pressure  and  force. 
But  this  quality  did  not  adhere  to  Forrest's  mode 
of  reading  after  he  had  once  tested  the  practical 
method  of  dramatic  action.  White's  influence 
was,  however,  observable  in  his  articulation,  which 
was  always  very  distinct.  He  was  a  great  admirer 

24* 


282          FORREST'S  IMITATION   OF  KEAN. 

of  Kean,  whom  he  had  met  and  acted  with  in  Al- 
bany before  he  had  won  any  commanding  position 
on  the  stage.  There  was  an  almost  ferocious  in- 
tensity in  Kean's  articulative  stress,  and  his  deep 
guttural  tones  seemed  to  struggle  in  the  grasp 
of  the  organs  till  they  burst  forth  more  like  yells 
of  demoniac  rage  than  human  utterance ;  while  to 
this  were  added  the  graces  of  a  soft  and  almost 
womanly  tenderness  of  voice  whenever  he  chose 
to  employ  them  as  an  offset  to  his  vehement  and 
rapid  flights  of  passion.  These  entirely  new 
effects  were  too  tempting  to  be  disregarded 
by  the  young  and  ardent  American  actor  in  his 
efforts  to  keep  pace  with  the  public  demand  for 
novelty  and  improvement  in  dramatic  art,  espe- 
cially as  the  most  cultivated  of  the  English  actors 
were  yearly  becoming  candidates  for  American 
recognition. 

Thus,  Forrest  was  almost  unconsciously  led  to 
the  reception  of  other  impressions  than  those 
which  he  had  no  doubt  received  in  early  life  from 
Cooper,  and  gradually  became  a  believer  in  Kean's 
method,  at  least  so  far  as  to  adopt  his  deep  and 
growling  tones  ;  and  with  these  he  combined  much 
of  the  deliberate  utterance  of  the  old  English 
school,  until  toward  the  close  of  his  career  it  was 
his  habit  to  make  use  of  almost  as  many  sug- 
gestive pauses  as  marked  the  style  of  the  great 
classic  tragedian,  John  Philip  Kemble. 

About  the  year  1841,  while  I  was  teaching  elo- 
cution in  Boston,  one  morning  Mr.  Forrest  dropped 
into  my  rooms.  He  was  returning  from  a  rehear- 


HIS  READING    OF    WILLIS'S  POEMS.         283 

sal,  and  was  somewhat  fatigued.  I  had  just  been 
giving  a  lesson,  and  we  began  a  friendly  chat 
about  reading.  A  copy  of  Willis's  poems  was 
lying  on  the  table,  and  taking  it  up  Mr.  Forrest 
began  to  read  in  a  delineative  manner,  subdued 
but  demonstrative  and  impressive.  As  he  pro- 
ceeded I  could  not  but  feel  how  much  of  his  own 
strong  individuality  colored  his  utterance  of  the 
poetic  thoughts,  while  his  energized  emphasis 
seemed  to  suggest  the  idea  that  he  was  exhibit- 
ing his  peculiar  powers  of  elocution  rather  than 
giving  form  and  life  to  the  language  of  the  au- 
thor. There  seemed  to  be  too  much  display  of 
the  vehicle  and  too  little  regard  for  its  freight- 
age. Shakespeare  says, 

Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in  words, 
Brags  of  its  substance,  not  of  ornament. 

Parrhasius,  in  the  dreamy  atmosphere  of  his  stu- 
dio, was  made  by  the  reader  to  appear  a  material 
abstraction  amid  artistic  surroundings  in  the  dim 
poetic  light  of  seclusion  and  study ;  but  all  was  too 
ponderously  palpable  for  the  mental  eye.  As  the 
tragedian  became  absorbed  in  his  reading  the  in- 
tensity of  his  expression,  aided  by  his  fine  vocal 
powers,  held  me  in  a  profound  state  of  admira- 
tion, and  yet  I  felt  that  he  was  acting  his  subject, 
and  not  describing  it.  Indeed,  so  apparent  did 
this  become  that  I  was  quite  conscious  of  seeing 
and  hearing  more  with  the  eye  and  ear  of  an 
actor  than  with  the  organs  of  one  who  was  ab- 
sorbed in  a  poet's  thoughts  But  when  utterance 


284  A   PASSAGE  FROM  "PARRHASIUS." 

was  given  to  the  following  lines  I  became  fully 
assured  that  the  reader  was  stirred  to  the  inner- 
most depth  of  an  impulsive  nature  impatient  and 
rebellious  against  conventional  dictation : 

Pity  thee  ?     So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar, 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine : 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

Hereafter  ?    Ay,  hereafter  ! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  sceptic's  laughter? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story, 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

No,  no,  old  man  !     We  die 
Even  as  the  flowers,  and-we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they. 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye, 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

Yet  there's  a  deathless  name, 
A  spirit,  that  this  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn  ; 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  I'd  bind  it  on ! 

Ay,  though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst; 
Though  every  lifestrung  nerve  be  maddened  first; 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 


THE  SIGNS   OF  PASSION.  285 

The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild. 

All !  I  would  do  it  all, 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm  to  rot, 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 

I  had  known  Mr.  Forrest  intimately  for  several 
years  prior  to  the  period  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
and  was  quite  familiar  with  his  views  of  life,  both 
present  and  future ;  but  never  did  I  feel  so  near 
the  inner  life  of  the  man  as  I  did  in  listening  to 
his  reading  of  "Parrhasius."  He  was  evidently  in 
one  of  his  strange  moods  and  under  a  sombre 
cloud.  He  was  only  reading  a  poem,  but  with  the 
peculiar  tones  of  his  voice  came  the  impression, 
"  There  are  more  things  in  "  my  friend's  "  heaven 
and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in "  my  "  philos- 
ophy." 

When  men  grind  their  teeth  in  speech  and  choke 
with  passions  strong  and  deep,  we  may  know  the 
brain  is  restless  and  the  heart  ill  at  ease.  The 
spiritual  adviser,  the  man  of  law,  and  the  deline- 
ator of  human  passions  often  exhibit  in  the  tones 
of  their  utterance  more  of  the  state  of  the  inner 
sanctuary  than  at  the  moment  they  imagine  or 
intend.  The  tone  of  the  voice  is  not  unfrequently 
the  index  of  the  heart. 


ADAH   ISAACS   MENKEN. 

I  have  before  referred  to  an  instance  in  which 
Mr.  Macready  was  placed  in  a  distracting  dilemma 


286  ADAH  ISAACS  MENKEN. 

through  the  blundering  of  an  incompetent  actor 
at  the  culminating  point  of  one  of  his  finest  situ- 
ations in  Macbeth.  One  can  well  imagine  the 
feelings  of  a  performer  who,  yielding  himself  to 
the  successive  development  of  the  plot  and  inci- 
dents of  one  of  the  grandest  productions  of  our 
greatest  dramatist,  and  being  wound  up  to  a  high 
pitch  of  interest  and  effect,  suddenly  finds  himself 
utterly  overthrown  by  the  inefficiency  or  neglect 
of  other  performers  engaged  in  the  same  scene. 
And  yet  from  the  "  hand-to-mouth  "  mode  of  man- 
agement prevalent  all  over  the  country  the  trage- 
dian and  his  audience  are  constantly  subjected  to 
such  results.  Of  many  Ceases  in  point  which  have 
come  under  my  own  observation,  I  am  reminded 
of  the  following,  in  which  it  will  be  observed  inor- 
dinate vanity  and  misdirected  impulses  led  a  young 
lady  to  attempt  without  preparatory  study  the  im- 
personation of  one  of  Shakespeare's  most  power- 
ful creations. 

I  was  fulfilling  a  short  engagement  in  Nashville, 
Tenn.,  and  the  manager  had  made  an  arrangement 
with  Miss  Adah  Isaacs  Menken  (so  famous  for  her 
Mazeppa  performances)  to  act  the  leading  female 
characters  in  my  plays.  I  found  her,  however,  to 
be  a  mere  novice,  and  not  at  all  qualified  for  the 
important  situation  to  which  she  had  aspired.  But 
she  was  anxious  to  improve  and  willing  to  be 
taught.  A  woman  of  personal  attractions,  she 
made  herself  a  great  favorite  in  Nashville.  She 
dashed  at  everything  in  tragedy  and  comedy  with 
a  reckless  disregard  of  consequences,  until  at 


A    TIMID    TRAGEDIENNE.  287 

length,  with  some  degree  of  trepidation,  she 
paused  before  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth ! 
I  found  in  the  first  rehearsal  that  she  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  part  save  what  she  had  gained 
from  seeing  it  performed  by  popular  actresses  of 
the  day. 

Miss  Menken  was  a  woman  of  literary  taste, 
and  had  gained  some  reputation  as  a  writer  for 
newspapers  and  magazines.  She  had  withal  a 
good  understanding  and  a  quick  perception  of 
what  may  be  termed  the  more  palpable  significa- 
tion of  what  was  written,  but  could  not  rise  to  a 
perfect  appreciation  of  its  highest  sense.  So  she 
came  to  me  and  frankly  said,  "  I  know  nothing  of 
this  part,  and  have  a  profound  dread  of  it,  but  I 
must  act  it,  for  I  have  told  the  manager  that  I  was 
up  to  the  performance  of  all  the  leading  charac- 
ters."— "Why,"  I  replied,  "you  don't  even  know 
the  words,  and  have  no  time  to  study  them." — "Oh, 
that's  of  no  consequence,"  she  replied ;  "  I  can 
commit  the  lines  in  a  few  hours  if  you  will  run 
over  them  and  mark  the  emphasis  for  me." — "  But," 
I  said,  "  that  will  not  do  unless  you  have  a  precon- 
ceived idea  of  the  character  and  an  appreciation 
of  its  purposes  in  relation  to  Macbeth.  You  can 
give  no  proper  expression  to  the  emphatic  words 
when  they  are  pointed  out  to  you,  for  you  have  no 
time  to  acquire  the  power  to  bring  them  into  pro- 
per subjection  to  your  will  as  expressive  agents. 
All  I  can  do  under  the  circumstances  is  to  read 
the  part  to  you,  and  leave  you  to  your  own  re- 
sources for  the  rest."  I  accordingly  gave  the  lady 


288  A    NOVEL   LADY  MACBETH. 

a  few  general  ideas  of  the  action  of  the  part,  and 
finished  by  begging  her  at  least  to  learn  the  words, 
and  for  the  acting  trust  to  chance.  Night  came, 
and  with  it  came  Miss  Mepken  arrayed  to  person- 
ate the  would-be  queen.  She  grasped  the  letter 
and  read  it  in  the  approved  style,  holding  it  at 
arms'  length  and  gaspingly  devouring  the  words 
with  all  the  intensity  of  ferocious  desire ;  then, 
throwing  her  arms  wildly  over  her  head,  she 
poured  out  such  an  apostrophe  to  guilt,  demons, 
and  her  own  dark  purposes  that  it  would  have 
puzzled  any  one  acquainted  with  the  text  to  guess 
from  what  unlimited  "  variorum  "  she  could  have 
studied  the  part.  However,  as  Casca  said  of 
Cicero,  "  He  speaks  Greek !"  and  Miss  Menken 
spoke  what  the  people  thought  was  "  Shake- 
speare," and,  for  aught  they  knew  to  the  con- 
trary, it  might  have  been  Greek  too. 

Flushed  with  her  reception  and  the  lavish  ap- 
plause which  followed  the  reading  of  the  letter,  she 
entered  on  the  next  scene,  where  Lady  Macbeth 
chastises  the  flagging  will  of  her  consort  "with 
the  valor  of  her  tongue,"  and  at  her  sneering  ref- 
erence to  "  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  "  she  swept 
by  her  liege  lord  as  if  he  were  a  fit  object  for 
derision  and  contempt;  and  then  came  another 
round  of  applause.  After  Macbeth's  announce- 
ment that  he  was  capable  of  doing  "  all  that  dare 
become  a  man,"  the  lady  returned  to  the  charge 
with  most  determined  scorn  and  denunciation,  and 
in  tones  which  might  have  become  a  Xantippe  ex- 
claimed, 


A   DEMORALIZED  LADY  MACBETH.         289 

What  beast  was  it,  then, 
That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you. 

Here,  "taking  the  stage,"  she  rushed  back  to 
Macbeth,  and  laying  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
whispered  in  his  ear,  "I  don't  know  the  rest." 
From  that  point  Macbeth  ceased  to  be  the  guilty 
thane,  and  became  a  mere  prompter  in  a  Scotch- 
kilt  and  tartans.  For  the  rest  of  the  scene  I  gave 
the  lady  the  words.  Clinging  to  my  side  in  a 
manner  very  different  from  her  former  scornful 
bearing,  she  took  them  line  by  line  before  she 
uttered  them,  still,  however,  receiving  vociferous 
applause,  and  particularly  when  she  spoke  of 
dashing  out  the  brains  of  her  child;  until  at  length 
poor  Macbeth,  who  was  but  playing  a  "  second  fid- 
dle "  to  his  imperious  consort,  was  glad  to  make 
his  exit  from  a  scene  where  "  the  honors  "  were 
certainly  not  "  even." 

Having  recovered  from  her  stage-fright,  Miss 
Menken,  by  what  is  termed  "  winging  it " — that  is, 
by  throwing  down  the  book  between  the  wings  of 
the  scene  when  going  on  the  stage,  and  taking  it 
up  again  for  another  reading  when  going  off — con- 
trived to  get  through  the  part 

25  T 


2QO    THEATRICAL    THUNDER   AND  LIGHTNING. 

MR.    FREDERICK  BROWN. 

Mr.  Frederick  F.  Brown  was  the  leading  actor 
of  Mr.  DeCamp's  company.  He  was  at  one  time 
quite  a  favorite  on  the  London  boards  both  in 
tragedy  and  comedy.  When  quite  young  he  was 
distinguished  for  his  ability  as  a  pantomimist,  and 
was  fond  of  acting  the  hero  in  La  Peroiise.  Dur- 
ing a  performance  of  that  once-popular  pantomime 
a  most  extraordinary  incident  occurred  through  a 
misunderstanding  on  the  part  of  the  property- 
man.  The  first  scene  of  the  piece  opens  with  a 
view  of  the  sea  and  a  shipwreck.  In  the  midst 
of  thunder  and  lightning  a  ship  is  seen  to  sink, 
and  a  sailor,  after  buffeting  the  waves,  is  finally 
thrown  on  shore.  He  staggers  to  a  bank  and 
throws  himself  down  in  a  state  of  exhaustion 
while  the  storm  rages  on. 

In  order  to  render  the  story  clear  to  the  mind 
of  the  reader,  it  will  be  necessary  to  describe  the 
manner  in  which  theatrical  thunder  and  lightning 
are  produced.  Imagine,  then,  a  pair  of  ordinary 
fire-bellows  with  a  flat  tin  box  fastened  to  the 
nozzle,  the  top  of  the  box  perforated  like  a  flour- 
dredger,  and  in  the  middle  a  socket  containing  a 
piece  of  lighted  candle.  This  box  is  filled  with 
powdered  resin,  which,  when  the  bellows  are 
blown,  is  forced  out  at  holes  surrounding  the 
candle,  and,  meeting  the  flame,  makes  a  brilliant 
blaze.  Thus  by  repeated  puffs  of  the  bellows 
an  effect  like  lightning-flashes  is  produced.  The 
property-man  stands  between  the  wings  of  the 


LUCID   DIRECTIONS.  2QI 

stage,  out  of  sight  of  course,  and  puffs  his  bellows, 
the  flashes  from  which,  reflected  on  the  stage,  make 
quite  a  good  representation  of  vivid  lightning. 
The  thunder  is  usually  made  by  rolling  wooden 
balls  along  troughs  set  above  the  scenes  for  that 
purpose,  or  by  shaking  a  plate  of  sheet  iron  sus- 
pended by  a  rope  over  the  prompter's  box  at  the 
side  of  the  stage. 

Before  appearing  as  the  shipwrecked  sailor  Mr. 
Brown  must  be  understood  to  have  given  direc- 
tions to  the  individual  who  makes  and  dispenses 
the  lightning.  The  property-man  in  this  case  was 
a  Frenchman  of  a  quick,  irritable  temper,  who  did 
not  feel  at  all  complimented  when  his  English  was 
called  into  question,  and  was  therefore  very  apt  to 
say,  "  Oh  yez,  I  undare-stand — all  right !"  Brown 
was  very  prosy  and  particular  in  his  forms  of  ex- 
pression, repeating  himself  so  often  as  to  render 
what  he  had  to  say  somewhat  obscure :  "  Now, 
Nick,  you  know,  I  want  you,  you  know,  to  give  me 
half  a  dozen  puffs"  (quite  natural  for  an  actor!) 
"  when  you  see  me  first  stagger  out  of  the  water 
and  throw  myself  down  on  the  bank.  Then  run 
to  the  right-hand  side  of  the  stage  and  stand  in 
the  wings  ready  for  me ;  when  I  throw  myself 
against  the  wing  on  that  side,  you  know,  flash  up 
pretty  brightly.  Then  run  round,  you  know,  to 
the  left-hand  side,  you  know,  and  when  I  cross 
over  and  lean  against  the  wing  on  that  side,  give 
it  to  me  again.  Then  back  to  the  right-hand  wing, 
and  repeat  as  before ;  so  follow  me  up  till  I  stag- 
ger and  fall  on  my  face  in  front  of  the  footlights ; 


292          AN  ORDER    CAREFULLY  OBEYED. 

and  then  puff  away  as  hard  and  fast  as  you  can, 
and  keep  it  up  till  the  applause  stops." — "Yez, 
sare,  yez— all  right!"  said  Nick. — "All  right!"  said 
Brown. 

The  scene  began  and  the  music  struck  up.  This 
was  supposed  to  be  expressive,  at  one  time  of  a 
storm,  and  at  another  of  the  feelings  of  the  unfor- 
tunate sailor,  who  now  appeared,  and  struggling 
through  the  water,  reached  the  land  and  fell  upon 
the  bank  to  a  well-timed  "chord"  from  the  or- 
chestra, accompanied  with  brilliant  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  Brown,  with 
unmistakable  laughter  from  the  audience.  Raising 
himself  as  the  music  began  to  change  for  his  ac- 
tion, he  staggered  across  the  stage  to  a  pizzicato 
movement,  struck  his  attitude  at  the  right-hand 
wing  with  another  chord,  when  a  roar  of  laughter 
again  burst  forth  as  the  lightning  flashed  across 
the  darkened  stage.  Again  the  music  changed, 
and,  fainter  still,  the  poor  sailor  labored  to  reach 
the  opposite  side  and  throw  himself  for  support 
against  the  wing,  when  another  chord  from  the 
orchestra  and  another  flash  of  lightning,  followed 
by  boisterous  laughter,  made  Brown  aware  that 
something  was  going  wrong.  But  intent  on  keep- 
ing time  to  the  music  of  the  scene  and  preserving 
the  consistency  of  action,  which  did  not  permit 
him  (the  half-dead  sailor)  to  look  back  when  his 
life  depended  on  going  ahead,  and  totally  uncon- 
scious of  the  cause  of  the  laughter,  he  kept  up  his 
feeble  efforts  to  reach  the  footlights,  while  at  each 
wing  at  which  he  rested  the  merriment  increased; 


A  LITERAL  LIGHTNING-MAKER.  293 

till  at  last,  falling  on  his  face  with  the  final  crash 
of  the  music,  the  whole  house  became  convulsed. 
Then  turning  on  his  back,  ye  gods !  how  was  he 
horrified  to  behold  Nick  immediately  behind  him 
puffing  away  at  the  lightning-bellows,  while  roar 
after  roar  of  laughter  burst  from  the  audience  as 
well  as  from  the  actors,  who  had  also  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  situation  !  Puff!  puff!  went  the 
bellows.  "Get  off!  go  away!"  screamed  Brown, 
"  go  away  !"  But  no :  Nick  was  *  all  right."  Was 
he  not  ordered  to  puff  away  till  the  applause 
stopped?  So  Nick  kept  puffing, and  the  audience 
kept  laughing  and  applauding,  till  the  prompter 
rang  down  the  curtain  amid  screams  of  merriment 
and  thunders  of  applause. 

Not  till  he  had  risen  from  the  stage  did  Brown 
learn  how  matters  had  worked  up  to  such  an  ex- 
traordinary climax.  Nick's  "All  right!"  had  been 
all  wrong  by  his  mistaking  Brown's  orders  to  fol- 
low him  up — which  meant  from  wing  to  wing  be- 
hind the  scenes — while  Nick  understood  that  he 
was  to  follow  the  actor  up  in  sight  of  the  audience; 
and  finding  he  had  made  a  "hit,"  he  kept  following 
him  up,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  "  all  right." 

25* 


CHAPTER   XV. 
FORREST  AND  HIS  SOCIAL  RELATIONS. 

"PORREST  started  in  professional  life  with  an 
-*-  instinctive  admiration  for  the  sublime  and  an 
ardent  love  of  the  beautiful  in  Nature  and  Art. 
He  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  feelings 
and  passions  of  the  author  he  intended  to  illus- 
trate, without,  however,  possessing  either  the  incli- 
nation or  ability  perfectly  to  analyze  his  thoughts, 
but  grasping  the  whole  with  fervor  and  independ- 
ent will.  Under  such  influences  he  achieved  a 
success  which  brought  him  before  the  public  as 
a  rising  genius  at  an  early  period  of  life.  Then 
came  the  time  in  which,  as  I  have  already  stated, 
he  met  and  was  strongly  impressed  with  Edmund 
Kean,  whose  energized  enunciations  and  startling 
transitions  made  him  the  sensation  of  the  day. 
Forrest,  like  Macready,  left  the  truer  guide,  un- 
trammelled Nature  and  her  precepts,  for  a  school 
of  art  which  proffered  a  distorted,  if  not  a  pervert- 
ed, imitation.  In  this  both  Macready  and  Forrest 
followed  "  the  fashion  of  the  times,"  accepting  the 
declaration  that 

The  drama's  laws  the  drama's  patrons  give, 
For  those  who  live  to  please  must  please  to  live. 

The  acting  of  Forrest  was   natural,  impulsive, 

294 


FORREST   VERSUS  MACREADY.  295 

and  ardent,  because  he  was  not  so  well  trained 
as  his  English  rivals  in  what  may  be  termed  a 
false  refinement.  True  dramatic  art  may  be  said 
to  be  the  sister  of  Nature,  but  her  teachings  are 
continually  perverted  by  those  who,  following  the 
example  of  Garrick,  take  the  liberty  of  interpreting 
them  according  to  their  own  ideas.  Forrest  was 
not  considered  as  polished  an  actor  as  Macready, 
and  was  often  charged  with  rudeness  and  violence 
in  his  impersonations,  and  even  ridiculed  for  muscu- 
larity of  manner ;  and  yet  I  never  knew  a  tragedian 
who  did  not  use  all  his  physical  power  in  reaching 
the  climax  of  his  most  impassioned  delineations. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Forrest  was 
a  strong  man,  and  when  excited  his  passions  ap- 
peared more  extreme  than  those  of  one  more  del- 
icately organized ;  and  unqualified  condemnation 
was  only  heard  from  those  who  were  either  unable 
or  unwilling  to  perceive  that  the  traits  which  dis- 
tinguished our  then  young  actor,  were  really  more 
natural  than  the  elaborate  presentations  and  pre- 
cise mannerisms  of  Macready.  Hence  \h&  people 
followed  Forrest,  and  loved  him,  while  those  who 
claimed  to  be  the  elite  admired  and  applauded 
Macready,  who  came  endorsed  by  a  metropolis 
which  in  those  days  in  matters  of  art  assumed 
the  direction  of  American  judgment.  Now,  true 
dramatic  excellence  is  believed  to  lie  midway  be- 
tween Forrest  and  Macready,  as  Beatrice  said  in 
speaking  of  Don  John :  "  He  were  an  excellent 
man  that  were  made  just  in  the  midway  between 
him  and  Benedick." 


296  FORREST'S  PROGRESSIVE  IMPROVEMENT. 

Public  animadversion  and  private  sneers  fell 
like  coals  of  fire  on  the  nature  of  a  man  who  was 
sensitively  alive  to  the  fact  that  a  want  of  scholas- 
tic education,  whatever  might  be  his  natural  gifts, 
was,  in  the  minds  of  a  certain  class,  an  evidence 
of  inferiority.  But  although  Forrest  in  his  youth 
had  only  received  what  was  then  called  a  good 
school-training,  he  furnished  in  his  manhood  an 
example  which  might  have  been  profitably  imita- 
ted by  the  young  men  of  his  time,  who,  with  all 
the  advantages  of  collegiate  education,  failed  to 
exhibit  the  progressive  intellectual  improvement 
which  steadily  marked  his  course  from  year  to 
year.  Many  who  did  not  admire  his  earlier  dra- 
matic performances  were  greatly  impressed  with 
his  manner  in  the  later  part  of  his  career,  his  im- 
personation of  Lear  being  generally  considered 
the  crowning-point  of  his  excellence. 

Mr.  Longfellow,  who  did  not  admire  Mr.  For- 
rest in  Jack  Cade  and  The  Gladiator,  speaking 
of  his  Lear,  said  it  was  a  noble  performance, 
grand  and  pathetic,  well  worthy  the  admiration 
of  the  lovers  of  good  acting.  Many  of  the  culti- 
vated frequenters  of  the  theatre  in  Boston  were 
prejudiced  against  Mr.  Forrest  for  what  they  con- 
sidered an  offensively  independent  bearing,  which 
at  times  amounted  to  arrogance ;  but  this  feeling 
was  no  doubt  the  result  in  a  great  measure  of 
stories  circulated  by  those  conversant  with  the 
gossip  of  the  greenroom.  It  is  certain  that  Mr. 
Forrest  never  made  any  effort  to  conciliate  his 
brother-performers,  and  over  many  of  the  subor- 


HIS  MANNER  ,  TOWARD    THE  PUBLIC.       297 

dinate  wearers  of  the  "sock  and  buskin"  he  not 
unfrequently  exercised  such  an  authority  as,  it 
must  be  confessed,  much  resembled  tyranny.  So 
far  as  the  public  were  concerned,  he  did  not  care 
to  change  the  impression  entertained  of  his  man- 
ners, but  rather  encouraged  it,  as  an  evidence  that 
he  considered  himself  in  every  respect  equal  to 
those  who,  assuming  superiority,  intellectual  or 
otherwise,  were  disposed  to  deny  his  ability  as 
an  a'ctor  or  his  right  to  social  equality.  The 
parts  in  which  he  was  most  popular  were  those 
of  Spartacus,  Metamora,  and  Jack  Cade,  and  these 
characters,  which  owed  much  of  their  effectiveness 
to  personal  bearing  and  muscular  action,  he  con- 
tinued to  play  more  frequently  than  others  in 
which  he  exhibited  far  greater  excellence,  both 
before  and  during  the  period  of  his  maturity- — 
not  perhaps  from  choice,  but  because  the  man- 
agers, with  a  regard  to  their  pecuniary  interest, 
wished  such  performances  as  were  likely  to  draw 
the  best  houses.* 

There  were,  however,  many  persons  among 
those  to  whom  I  have  alluded  who,  preferring 
what  they  esteemed  more  intellectual  and  refined 
entertainment,  and  feeling  more  in  sympathy  with 
the  representations  of  Othello,  Hamlet,  and  Lear, 
affected  a  contempt  for  the  more  popular  perform- 
ances, and  commented  upon  them  with  selfish  and 

*  Old  Mr.  Burke,  the  father  of  the  youthful  dramatic  and  musical 
prodigy  so  popular  half  a  century  ago,  when  he  heard  of  Mr.  Forrest 
as  a  distinguished  performer,  said,  "  Does  he  draw  big  houses  ?"  and 
being  told  that  he  did,  he  exclaimed,  "  Then,  by  the  powers !  he's  a 
great  actor!" 


298  A   FURIOUS    TEMPEST  RAISED. 

unjust  severity.  And  as  this  depreciation  of  Mr. 
Forrest  was  accompanied  with  extravagant  ex- 
pressions of  admiration  for  Mr.  Macready,  by 
which  he  was  held  up  as  the  beau-ideal  of  dra- 
matic art,  it  seriously  injured  the  reputation  of 
Mr.  Forrest  in  what  is  termed  good  society. 

As  an  illustration  of  Mr.  Forrest's  intellectual 
appreciation  and  intense  delineation  of  such  cha- 
racters as  he  made  exclusively  his  own,  I  will  here 
relate  a  striking  incident. 

In  the  year  1831,  Mr.  Forrest  came  to  Augusta, 
Ga.,  where  I  was  playing  an  engagement  with  Mr. 
DeCamp,  with  the  intention  of  introducing  his 
then  new  character  of  Metamora.  The  arrange- 
ments for  the  play  were  complete,  and  the  house 
crowded  to  excess  in  every  part.  Everything  pro- 
gressed satisfactorily  until  the  celebrated  council- 
scene  came  on.  Here  Metamora  upbraids  the 
elders  of  the  council  for  their  unjust  and  cruel 
treatment  of  his  tribe,  and  denounces  war  and 
vengeance  upon  them  until  the  land  they  had 
stolen  from  his  people  should  blaze  with  their 
burning  dwellings  and  reek  with  the  blood  of  their 
wives  and  children.  Then,  dashing  down  his  toma- 
hawk and  drawing  his  scalping-knife,  he  gives  the 
war-whoop  and  disappears  in  the  uproar  and  con- 
fusion of  the  scene.  Evident  dissatisfaction  had 
begun  to  find  expression  long  before  this  climax 
was  reached,  and  as  the  chief  rushed  from  the 
stage  he  was  followed  by  loud  yells  and  a  perfect 
storm  of  hisses  from  the  excited  audience,  who 
seemed  ready  in  their  fury  to  tear  everything  to 


AN  INDIGNANT  COMMUNITY.  299 

pieces.  Order  was  with  difficulty  restored,  and 
the  performance  continued  till  the  curtain  fell 
upon  the  dying  chief  amid  unqualified  evidences 
of  disapprobation.  Both  actor  and  manager  now 
began  to  realize  what  had  not  occurred  to  them 
before — that  the  sentiment  of  the  play  was  a  posi- 
tive protest  against  the  policy  which  had  deprived 
the  Indians  of  Georgia  of  their  natural  rights  and 
driven  them  from  their  homes.  The  next  day  the 
public  mind  was  highly  excited,  and  Mr.  Forrest 
openly  charged  with  insulting  the  people  of  Au- 
gusta by  appearing  in  a  character  which  con- 
demned the  course  of  the  State  in  dealing  with 
the  land-claims  of  the  Cherokee  Indians.  The 
citizens  were  all  deeply  interested  in  this  question, 
and  in  consequence  felt  indignant  at  any  refer- 
ence to  the  stealing  of  Indian  property,  and  espe- 
cially so  at  being  menaced  with  the  tomahawk  and 
scalping-knife  of  the  red  man's  vengeance  so  bit- 
terly threatened  in  the  language  of  the  play.  In 
the  course  of  an  angry  discussion  of  the  subject, 
and  in  reply  to  a  gentleman  who  ventured  to  as- 
sert that  an  actor  did  not  express  his  own  senti- 
ments in  the  language  of  the  character  he  assumed, 
and  that,  therefore,  the  author  should  be  held  re- 
sponsible and  not  Mr.  Forrest,  an  eminent  lawyer, 
Judge  Shannon,  said:  "Any  actor  who  could  utter 
such  scathing  language,  and  with  such  vehemence, 
must  have  the  whole  matter  at  heart.  Why,"  said 
he,  "  his  eyes  shot  fire  and  his  breath  was  hot  with 
the  hissing  of  his  ferocious  declamation.  I  insist 
upon  it,  Forrest  believes  in  that  d— — d  Indian 


300    BOSTONIANS  DESIRE    TO   MEET  FORREST. 

speech,  and  it  is  an  insult  to  the  whole  commun- 
ity." The  next  night  Metamora  was  acted  to 
empty  benches,  and  consequently  withdrawn,  and 
the  remaining  nights  of  Mr.  Forrest's  engagement 
showed,  by  the  returns  at  the  box-office,  that  the 
citizens  of  Augusta  did  not  relish  any  adverse 
opinions  upon  the  legislative  decisions  of  the  State 
of  Georgia. 


FORREST  AT  A  BOSTON   SUPPER. 

While  Mr.  Forrest  was  fulfilling  an  engagement 
in  the  old  Tremont  Theatre,  Boston,  somewhere 
about  1840  or  '42,  some  of  my  friends — among 
them  the  late  Hon.  George  S.  Hillard  and  some 
of  the  professors  at  Cambridge — knowing  his  dis- 
inclination to  accept  invitations  to  formal  enter- 
tainments, expressed  a  desire  to  meet  and  pass 
an  evening  with  him  socially ;  and  it  was  sug- 
gested that  my  house  would  be  an  appropriate 
place.  Knowing  these  gentlemen  to  be  admirers 
of  the  great  English  actor  Mr.  Macready,  and 
rather  inclined  to  underrate  Mr.  Forrest's  intel- 
lectual qualities,  I  at  once  accepted  the  proposition, 
and  invited  them  to  meet  my  friend  at  supper  on 
a  Saturday  evening,  the  custom  in  Boston  at  that 
time  being  to  have  no  theatrical  performances  on 
that  night.  At  first,  Mr.  Forrest  positively  refused 
to  come,  declaring  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  ex- 
hibited in  private  for  the  gratification  of  curiosity, 
and  doubtless  for  comparison  with  Macready,  who 
was  considered  by  a  certain  class  of  cultivated  people 


A   REUNION  AT  THE   "HUB:'  30 1 

(laying  a  peculiar  emphasis  upon  this  phrase)  as 
his  superior,  both  professionally  and  in  private 
life ;  and,  further,  that  he  had  no  wish  to  enter 
into  any  such  competition  with  Mr.  Macready,  for 
whose  scholarship  he  had  a  much  greater  admira- 
tion than  for  his  ability  as  a  delineator  of  Shake- 
spearian character.  To  all  this  he  added  that  he 
was  tired  and  out  of  humor,  and  would  much  pre- 
fer taking  his  supper  quietly  in  my  cozy  little  home 
with  my  wife,  my  children,  and  myself.  I  urged  the 
matter,  however,  on  the  ground  that  the  gentle- 
men I  wished  him  to  meet  were  not,  in  the  light 
sense  of  the  term,  fashionable  people,  but  men 
of  learning,  lovers  of  the  arts,  and  especially  of 
the  drama,  and  not  actuated  by  any  idle  curiosity, 
but  simply  by  a  desire  to  meet  him  as  one  they 
had  often  seen  and  admired  as  an  actor.  So  he 
reconsidered  the  matter,  and  finally  accepted  my 
invitation. 

Contrary  to  my  expectations,  when  the  evening 
arrived  he  was  in  excellent  spirits,  cheerful,  and 
even  gay ;  he  responded  willingly  to  the  inquiries 
of  my  friends  in  relation  to  the  impressions  he 
had  received  in  foreign  travel,  commenting  with 
great  intelligence  and  discrimination  upon  the 
habits  and  customs  of  different  nations,  the  pecu- 
liarities of  their  governments,  describing  various 
scenes  through  which  he  had  passed  and  peculiar 
persons  he  had  met  with,  related  many  anecdotes, 
gave  his  opinion  of  the  character  and  condition 
of  dramatic  art  among  the  French,  Italians,  Span- 
ish, and  Germans,  and  dwelt  at  length  upon  the 

26 


302    LITERARY  APPRECIATION  OF  FORREST. 

enjoyment  he  had  derived  from  visiting1  the  great 
galleries  of  painting  and  sculpture.  To  say  that 
my  friends  were  gratified  would  convey  a  very 
faint  idea  of  the  impression  made  by  his  conver- 
sation ;  they  were  perfectly  charmed,  and  regard- 
ed him  not  only  as  a  gentleman  unaffected  and 
courteous,  but  possessing  very  remarkable  qual- 
ities of  mind.  I  was  also  much  impressed  with 
his  manner  and  all  that  he  said — I  never  knew 
him  more  effective  on  the  stage  than  he  was  that 
night — but  I  was  particularly  struck  with  the  evi- 
dence that  he  derived  so  much  pleasure  in  endea- 
voring to  please  others.  Mr.  Hillard  thereafter, 
in  referring  to  the  occasion,  expressed  great  sur- 
prise not  only  at  the  fluency  of  his  language,  but 
the  variety  and  brilliancy  of  his  expressive  pow- 
ers. He  said  that  he  had  found  Mr.  Forrest  to 
differ  entirely  from  the  idea  he  had  formed  of  him 
from  the  character  of  his  acting  and  from  what  he 
knew  of  the  public  estimate  of  his  intellect  and 
culture. 

Within  the  past  few  years  I  have  heard  distin- 
guished literary  people,  both  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, speak  in  terms  quite  as  complimentary  of 
Mr.  Forrest's  manners  and  conversation.  Mr. 
Hawthorne  remarked  that  he  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  conversationalists  he  had  ever  met — 
that  he  heard  him  talk  two  hours  at  a  sitting,  and 
could  have  listened  to  him  all  night.  It  is  much 
to  be  regretted  that  a  man  so  gifted,  capable  of 
affording  to  society  so  much  profit  and  pleasure, 
should  have  retired,  as  it  were,  within  himself,  nar- 


I 

TAYLOR   ON  KEMBLE' S  HAMLET.  303 

rowing  the  circle  of  his  usefulness  and  bestowing 
his  sympathies  only  on  a  favored  few,  who  ven- 
tured and  were  permitted  to  enter  the  limit  of  a 
morbid  seclusion. 


JOHN  KEMBLE   AS  HAMLET. 

"I  attended,"  says  John  Taylor,  "Mr.  John 
Kemble's^  first  appearance  [as  Hamlet]  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  being 
struck  with  his  person  and  demeanor,  though  the 
latter  was  in  general  too  stately  and  formal ;  but 
perhaps  it  only  appeared  so  to  me,  as  I  had  seen 
Garrick  perform  the  same  character  several  times 
a  few  years  before,  and  had  a  vivid  recollection  of 
his  excellence.  There  was  some  novelty  in  Mr. 
Kemble's  delivery  of  certain  passages,  but  it 
appeared  to  me  rather  the  refinement  of  critical 
research  than  the  sympathetic  ardor  of  congenial 
feelings  with  the  author.  I  sat  on  the  third  row 
of  the  pit,  close  to  my  old  friend  Peregrine  Phil- 
lips, the  father  of  Mrs.  Crouch.  Phillips  was  en- 
thusiastic in  his  admiration  and  applause  upon 
every  expression  and  attitude  of  Kemble,  even 
to  a  fatiguing  excess.  When  Kemble  had  dis- 
missed one  of  the  court-spies  sent  to  watch  him, 
and  kept  back  the  other,  Phillips  exclaimed,  '  Oh, 
fine !  fine !' — '  It  may  be  very  fine/  said  I,  *  but 
what  does  it  mean,  my  friend  ?' — '  Oh/  he  an- 
swered, '  I  know  not  what  it  means,  but  it  is  fine 
and  grand/ 

"Notwithstanding   the   unfavorable   impression 


304     KEMBLE'S  RECEPTIVITY  OF   OPINION. 

he  made  upon  me,  in  justice  I  must  say  that  in 
subsequent  performances  he  was  so  much  im- 
proved by  reflection  and  practice  that  his  Ham- 
let really  presented  a  model  of  theatrical  excel- 
lence, and  probably  never  will  be  exceeded  in  cor- 
rect conception  and  dignified  deportment.  His 
Coriolanus  was  a  masterpiece.  He  often  paid  me 
the  compliment  of  consulting  me  on  any  passage 
of  Shakespeare  that  appeared  doubtful,  and  would 
listen  with  great  attention  to  any  opinion  that  dif- 
fered from  his  own  ;  and  I  do  not  recollect  any 
occasion  on  which  I  had  not  reason  to  assent  to 
his  explanation  of  the  text.  But  I  never  knew 
any  person  who  was  more  ready  to  attend  to  the 
suggestions  of  others.  He  often  desired  that  I 
would  let  him  know  where  I  did  not  approve  of 
his  acting,  and  his  manner  was  so  open  and  sin- 
cere that  I  did  not  scruple  to  give  my  opinion, 
even  to  such  a  master  of  his  art  and  so  acute  a 
critic.  He  never  spared  pains  to  ascertain  the 
meaning  of  what  he  or  anybody  thought  doubtful. 
"  I  remember  once,  in  compliance  with  his  re- 
quest, I  told  him  I  thought  that  in  one  passage  in 
Hamlet,  Garrick,  as  well  as  himself  and  all  other 
actors,  was  wrong  in  delivering  it.  The  passage 
was  where  Horatio  tells  Hamlet  that  he  came  to 
see  his  father's  funeral,  and  Hamlet  says  it  was 
rather  to  see  his  mother's  marriage,  when  Horatio 
observes,  'It  followed  hard  upon.'  Hamlet  replies — 

Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio ;  the  funeral  baked  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage-table. 


WRITING    OUT  PARTS    TO   BE  STUDIED.    305 

I  observed  that  this  passage  was  always  given 
in  anger,  whereas  in  my  opinion  it  ought  to  be 
delivered  with  ironical  praise.  He  immediately 
took  down  a  polyglot  dictionary  and  examined 
the  derivation  and  accepted  meaning  of  the  word 
thrift  in  all  the  languages,  and,  finding  that  it  was 
always  given  in  a  commendatory  sense,  he  thanked 
me,  and  ever  after  gave  the  passage  in  the  man- 
ner I  had  suggested. 

"I  ventured  to  point  out  other  alterations  in 
Hamlet  which  it  might  appear  vain  in  me  to  men- 
tion. Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in  hearing  them  he 
said,  '  Now,  Taylor,  I  have  copied  the  part  of 
Hamlet  forty  times,  and  you  have  obliged  me  to 
consider  and  copy  it  once  more/  This  is  a  proof 
of  the  labor  and  study  which  he  devoted  to  his 
profession.  It  is  but  justice  to  the  rest  of  his 
family,  as  well  as  to  himself,  to  say  they  were 
all  so  perfect  in  their  parts  that  the  prompter 
never  was  appealed  to  in  their  acting." 

This  habit  of  frequently  writing  out  the  part  to 
be  studied  was  customary  among  many  old  actors. 
I  remember  that  Mr.  William  B.  Wood,  speaking 
on  the  subject,  informed  me  that  he  found  frequent 
copying  the  most  effectual  mode  of  committing 
words  to  memory.  I  recently  heard  Mr.  William 
Warren — "the  universal  William"  of  Boston  fame 
— a  most  painstaking  and  indefatigable  student, 
remark  that  he  had  written  and  rewritten  a  new 
part  several  times  during  a  week's  study  prepara- 
tory to  rehearsal. 


26* 


306     REYNOLDS   ON  GARRICK'S  BENEDICK. 

GARRICK  AS   BENEDICK. 

Reynolds  relates  the  following :  "  Calling  one 
morning  on  my  mother's  friend,  Mrs.  Nuttall,  in 
Palace  Yard,  I  met  for  the  first  time  the  late  Mr. 
Harris,  who  for  nearly  half  a  century  so  ably  and 
liberally  managed  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  He 
was  speaking  of  Garrick ;  and  on  asking  Mrs. 
Nuttall  if  she  had  lately  seen  him,  she  replied, 
'  Last  night  I  went  with  this  young  gentleman  and 
saw  him  play  Benedick.'  She  then  introduced  me 
to  Mr.  Harris,  who,  taking  me  by  the  hand  and 
kindly  shaking  it,  said,  *  Well,  my  young  Westmins- 
ter, and  pray  in  which  scene  might  you  like  Gar- 
rick  best?' — 'In  the  scene,  sir,'  I  replied,  'where 
he  challenges  Claudio.' — 'And  why,  Frederick?' 
inquired  Mrs.  Nuttall. — '  Because,  madam,  he  there 
made  me  laugh  more  heartily  than  I  ever  did  be- 
fore, particularly  on  his  exit,  when,  sticking  on  his 
hat  and  tossing  up  his  head,  he  seemed  to  say  as 
he  strutted  away,  "Now,  Beatrice,  have  I  not  cut 
a  figure  ?"  ' — '  You  are  right,  my  boy,'  rejoined  Mr. 
Harris.  'Whilst  other  actors,  by  playing  this 
scene  seriously,  produce  little  or  no  effect,  Gar- 
rick,  by  acting  as  if  Beatrice  were  watching  him, 
delights  instead  of  fatiguing  the  audience." 

(That  a  boy  should  approve  of  such  a  distorted 
exhibition  of  stage-business  seems  natural  enough, 
but  I  am  surprised  that  an  experienced  manager  of 
a  theatre  should  make  a  favorable  criticism  there- 
on ;  and,  more  so,  that  Mr.  Garrick  should  have 
so  misrepresented  a  Shakespearian  character.  Let 


GARRICK  AS  HAMLET.  307 

us  examine  the  case.  Benedick  has  his  own  views, 
doubtless,  of  the  accusation  made  against  Hero  by 
his  friend,  though  as  yet  he  has  expressed  no  opin- 
ion. He  listens  with  intense  interest  to  the  grief 
and  indignation  of  Beatrice,  and  says,  "Think 
you  on  your  soul  the  count  Claudio  has  wronged 
Hero  ?"  To  which  she  replies,  "  Yea,  as  sure  as 
I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul."  This  is  solemnity  in 
question  and  asseveration — no  foundation  on  which 
to  build  a  jest.  Benedick  is  in  earnest,  "  in  most 
profound  earnest,"  when  he  promises  to  become 
the  champion  of  the  injured  lady.  Therefore,  a 
soldier  and  a  gentleman,  he  would  not  deliver  his 
challenge  in  a  spirit  of  levity,  nor  would  he  after 
it,  in  order  to  get  up  a  laugh,  stick  his  hat  on,  toss 
up  his  head,  and  strut  off  the  stage  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  peacock  or  frivolous  coxcomb.  Such  con- 
duct under  the  circumstances  would  have  been  an 
insult  to  Beatrice,  unworthy  such  an  actor  as  Mr. 
Garrick,  and  a  reflection  upon  the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare.) 

"'Such  is  his  (Garrick's)  magic  power/  Mr.  Har- 
ris continued,  '  that  a  few  nights  ago,  whilst  waiting 
for  him  at  the  stage-door  till  he  had  concluded  the 
closet-scene  in  Hamlet,  I  was  so  awestruck  by  the 
splendor  of  his  talent  that,  though  from  long  inti- 
macy Garrick  and  I  always  addressed  each  other 
by  our  Christian  names,  on  this  occasion,  when  he 
quitted  the  stage  and  advanced  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  I  found  myself  involuntarily  receding, 
calling  him  "  sir,"  and  bowing  with  reverence. 
He  stared,  and  expressing  a  doubt  of  my  sanity, 


308         A   BARBER'S   CLAIM   TO   APPLAUSE. 

I  explained;  on  which  he  acknowledged  with  a 
smile  of  gratification  '  that  next  to  Partridge's  de- 
scription of  him  in  Tom  Jones,  this  was  the  most 
genuine  compliment  he  had  ever  received/ 

"  As  a  contrast  to  this  panegyric,  and  to  show 
that  the  greatest  literary  doctors  can  disagree  as 
positively  as  the  medical,  I  will  repeat  the  remark 
that  even  Boswell  classes  amongst  Dr.  Johnson's 
absurd  and  heterodox  opinions.  On  Boswell  ask- 
ing him,  *  Would  not  you,  sir,  start  as  Mr.  Garrick 
does  if  you  saw  a  ghost  ?'  Johnson  replied,  '  I  hope 
not ;  if  I  did  I  should  frighten  the  ghost/ 

"  Shortly  afterward  I  saw  Garrick  perform  Ham- 
let for  the  last  time.  On  the  morning  of  that  day 
Perkins,  who  was  my  father's  wig-maker  as  well 
as  Garrick's,  cut  and  trimmed  my  hair  for  the 
occasion.  During  the  operation  he  told  me  that 
when  I  saw  Garrick  first  behold  the  Ghost  I  should 
see  each  individual  hair  of  his  head  stand  upright  ; 
and  he  concluded  by  hoping  that,  though  I  so  much 
admired  the  actor,  I  would  reserve  a  mite  of  ap- 
probation for  him  as  the  artist  of  this  most  inge- 
nious mechanical  wig — '  the  real  cause,'  he  added, 
'  entre  nous,  of  his  prodigious  effects  in  that  scene/ 

"Whether  this  story  was  related  by  the  face- 
tious perruquier  to  puff  himself  or  to  hoax  me, 
I  will  not  pretend  to  decide ;  but  this  I  can  say 
with  truth — that  though  I  did  not  see  Garrick's 
hair  rise  perpendicularly,  mine  did  when  he  broke 
from  Horatio  and  Marcellus,  with  anger  flashing 
from  '  his  two  balls  of  fire '  (as  his  eyes  were  right- 
ly called),  exclaiming,  'By  Heaven,  I'll  make  a 


LAST  APPEARANCE    OF  GARRICK.          309 

ghost  of  him  that  lets  me !'  The  effect  he  pro- 
duced in  a  previous  scene,  when  he  uttered  the 
following  lines,  was  electric : 

I  will  watch  to-night  j 
Perchance  'twill  walk  again. 

I  have  since  heard  many  actors  of  Hamlet  give 
these  words  in  a  calm,  considerate,  and  conse- 
quently ineffective  manner ;  but  Garrick,  buoyant 
with  hope  and  paternal  love,  rushed  exultingly 
forward,  and  spoke  the  words  with  an  ardor  and 
animation  that  electrified  the  whole  audience. 

Hence  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree, 

And,  pleased  with  Nature,  must  be  pleased  with  thee." 


GARRICK' S  LAST  APPEARANCE. 

"  On  the  night  Garrick  left  the  stage  my  brother 
Jack  and  I,  after  waiting  two  hours,  succeeded  at 
length  in  entering  the  pit.  The  riot  and  struggle 
for  places  can  scarcely  be  imagined,  even  from  the 
following  anecdote.  Though  a  side-box  close  to 
where  we  sat  was  completely  filled,  we  beheld  the 
door  burst  open  and  an  Irish  gentleman  attempt 
to  make  entry  vi  et  armis.  *  Shut  the  door,  box- 
keeper  !'  loudly  cried  some  of  the  party. — *  There's 
room,  by  the  powers  !'  cried  the  Irishman,  and  per- 
sisted in  advancing.  On  this  a  gentleman  in  the 
second  row  rose  and  exclaimed,  'Turn  out  that 
blackguard !' — '  Oh,  and  is  that  your  mode,  honey  ?' 
coolly  retorted  the  Irishman.  '  Come,  come  out, 
my  dear,  and  give  me  satisfaction,  or  I'll  pull  your 


310  HULL    THE  ACTOR. 

nose,  faith,  you  coward,  and  shillaly  you  through 
the  lobby.'  This  public  insult  left  the  tenant  in 
possession  no  alternative ;  so  he  rushed  out  to 
accept  the  challenge,  when,  to  the  pit's  general 
amusement,  the  Irishman  jumped  into  his  place, 
and  having  deliberately  seated  and  adjusted  him- 
self, he  turned  round  and  cried,  '/'//  talk  to  you 
after  the  play  is  over' 

"  The  comedy  of  The  Wonder  commenced,  but 
I  have  scarcely  any  recollection  of  what  passed 
during  its  representation ;  or,  if  I  had,  would  it 
not  be  tedious  to  repeat  a  ten-times-told  tale  ?  I 
only  remember  that  Garrick  and  his  hearers  were 
mutually  affected  by  the  farewell  address,  particu- 
larly in  that  part  where  he  said,  '  The  jingle  of 
rhyme  and  the  language  of  fiction  would  but  ill 
suit  my  present  feelings ;'  and  also  when,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  breast,  he  exclaimed,  'Wherever 
may  be  the  changes  of  my  future  life,  the  deepest 
impression  of  your  gratitude  will  remain  here, 
fixed  and  unalterable.' 

"  Still,  however,  though  my  memory  will  not 
allow  me  to  dwell  further  on  the  events  of  the 
evening,  my  pride  will  never  permit  me  to  forget 
that  I  witnessed  Garrick's  dramatic  death." 

Speaking  of  Hull  the  actor,  contemporary  with 
Garrick,  Taylor  says :  "  I  was  very  intimate  with 
him,  and  held  him  in  great  respect.  He  was  de- 
servedly esteemed  by  the  whole  of  the  theatrical 
community.  He  was  in  the  medical  profession 
before  he  adopted  that  of  an  actor,  but  in  what 
rank  I  never  knew.  He  was  generally  styled 


A   MODEL   CONJUGAL  PAIR.  311 

'  Doctor '  by  the  performers.  As  he  had  a  strong 
lisp,  it  is  strange  he  should  have  ventured  on  the 
stage,  but  he  probably  depended  on  his  good 
sense  and  knowledge.  He  was  an  actor  of  great 
judgment  and  feeling,  and  his  merit  in  Friar  Law- 
rence was  universally  acknowledged ;  and  in  this 
character  his  lisp  was  even  an  advantage.  He 
was  a  man  of  learning  and  possessed  literary 
talents.  He  wrote  a  tragedy  entitled  Fair  Rosa- 
mond and  published  two  volumes  of  poems  by 
subscription,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  one 
of  his  subscribers.  He  also  published  Letters  to  a 
lady  who  had  been  his  pupil,  and  whom  he  after- 
ward married.  This  lady  appeared  upon  the  stage 
in  the  character  of  Paulina  in  The  Winter's  Tale. 
At  the  time  I  knew  them  they  were  advanced  into 
the  vale  of  years,  and  were  a  perfect  Darby  and 
Joan.  She  often  came  behind  the  scenes  to  ad- 
mire and  animate  her  husband  long  after  she  had 
left  the  stage.  It  was  gratifying  to  observe  the 
attention  which  they  paid  to  each  other  at  their 
advanced  period  of  life.  This  attention  was  often 
a  subject  of  mirth  to  the  lively  actors,  but  was 
always  respected  by  those  of  a  graver  kind,  be- 
cause it  was  evidently  the  effect  of  long  and  rooted 
attachment. 

"I  remember  one  night  he  was  just  going  to 
take  a  pinch  of  snuff  when  she  said,  '  Try  mine, 
my  dear.' — '  I  will,  my  love,'  he  replied,  and  in  his 
manner  displayed  the  endearment  of  a  youthful 
lover.  Yet  there  was  nothing  ludicrous  in  the 
gallantry  of  this  aged  pair. 


312  THE    THEATRICAL   FUND. 

"  Mr.  Hull  was  for  a  few  years  the  stage-man- 
ager of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  and  in  that  capa- 
city, as  well  as  for  his  good  sense,  was  always 
required  to  address  the  audience  when  anything 
particular  had  occurred.  A  ludicrous  circum- 
stance happened  during  the  time  of  certain  riots 
in  London.  A  mob  came  before  his  door  and 
called  for  beer.  He  ordered  his  servant  to  sup- 
ply them,  till  a  barrel  which  he  happened  to  have 
in  his  house  was  exhausted ;  and  soon  after  an- 
other mob  came  with  the  same  demand,  and  did 
not  depart  without  doing  mischief.  A  third  mob 
came  and  clamorously  demanded  the  same  refresh- 
ment. Mr.  Hull  then  addressed  them,  with  theat- 
rical formality,  in  the  following  terms:  'Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  one  of  my  barrels  has  been  drunk  out 
and  one  has  been  let  out ;  there  are  no  more  in 
the  house,  and  therefore  we  hope  for  your  usual 
indulgence  on  these  occasions.' 

"  Mr.  Hull  deserves  the  perpetual  gratitude  of 
the  theatrical  community,  as  he  was  the  original 
founder  of  that  benevolent  institution  'The  The- 
atrical Fund,'  which  secures  a  provision  for  the 
aged  and  infirm  of  either  sex  who  are  no  longer 
capable  of  appearing  with  propriety  before  the 
public.  That  he  was  really  the  founder  admits  of 
no  dispute,  and  therefore,  as  I  have  attended  many 
anniversary  dinners  in  honor  of  the  institution,  I 
have  been  astonished  that  no  tribute  to  his  mem- 
ory has  been  ever  offered  on  the  occasion. 

"From  respect  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Hull  I 
wrote  the  following  lines  on  his  death : 


FRENCH-ENGLISH  ELOCUTION.  313 

EPITAPH 
On  the  late  Thomas  Hull,  Esq.,  founder  of  The  Theatrical 

fund. 

Hull,  long  respected  in  the  scenic  art, 
On  life's  great  stage  sustained  a  virtuous  part, 
And,  some  memorial  of  his  zeal  to  show 
For  his  loved  art,  and  shelter  age  from  woe, 
He  formed  that  noble  Fund  which  guards  his  name, 
Embalmed  by  gratitude,  enshrined  by  fame. 

This  epitaph  is  inscribed  on  his  tombstone  in  the 
Abbey  churchyard,  Westminster." 


RICHARD  THE  THIRD   FROM  A  FRENCH  STAND- 
POINT. 

I  have  endeavored,  at  some  length,  to  interest 
my  readers  by  describing  some  of  the  traits  of 
character  peculiar  to  my  professional  brethren,  and 
now  offer  a  sketch  of  a  gentleman  amateur  who 
lived  in  Philadelphia  many  years  ago.  His  idea  of 
acting  was  founded,  as  he  imagined,  on  the  great 
Talma,  and  was  at  variance  with  the  English  style 
on  the  ground  of  a  want  of  Nature  in  our  acting. 
However  such  a  notion  got  into  his  head,  it  is  not 
my  intention  to  illustrate  the  naturalness  or  un- 
naturalness  of  his  dramatic  assumptions.  I  can 
only  give  an  idea  of  his  French-English  pronun- 
ciation, of  which,  of  course,  he  was  not  at  all 
aware:  "You  see,  sare,  ze  English  actor,  he 
speak  his  solique  to  ze  people  too  much.  Ze 
solique  is  always  addressed  to  yourself  when  ze 
language  is  confident/  to  the  thought.  For  in- 
stance,  Hamlet  say  to  to/self,  '  To-be-or-not  to 

27 


3H  AN  AMBITIOUS  AMATEUR. 

be — zat-is-ze-question  ;  wezzer  it  is-noblair-in-ze- 
mind-to  suffare-ze  sling  and  arrow  of-outnzgeous- 
fortune-or  to-take-arms  against  a-sea  o/-troubet, 
and  by  opposing  end  zem.  To  die, — to-sleep- 
no-more  ;  and  by  asleep — tosay-we  ^^d-ze-heart- 
ache-and  ze  tousand  nature/  shocks  zat  flesh  is 
heir  to.  Tis  a  ^wsomazion  akvoutly  to-^-wisht- 
for.  —  Todietosleep — tosleepperchance  to  dream. 
— Ah,  ha !  zare  is  ze  rub,  for  in  zat  sleep  of  death 
what  dream  may  come  when  we-have-s^/~fle-off- 
this  mortal  coil — must  give  us  pause.  So  con- 
science  does  make  cowards  of  us  all,  and  enter- 
prise  of  great  pease  and  moment  with  zis  re- 
gard  their  current  turns  #wry,  and  lose  ze  name 
of  action" 

Convinced  of  his  great  genius  for  interpreting 
Shakespeare,  although  no  one  else  could  perceive 
it  in  the  slightest  degree,  our  self-satisfied  ama- 
teur engaged  the  theatre  for  one  night  only.  Pro- 
vided with  a  fine  dress,  he  "strutted  his  brief  hour 
on  the  stage,"  very  much  to  his  own  gratification 
and  delight,  and,  it  must  be  allowed,  with  like 
results  to  his  audience — save  and  except  this 
difference,  that  while  his  was  serious  and  sober 
satisfaction,  the  audience  took  their  money's  worth 
in  unqualified  merriment  and  gave  unbounded 
applause  in  the  spirit  of  fun. 

This  state  of  things  went  on  until  the  French 
tragedian,  getting  somewhat  of  a  glimmering  idea 
of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  abated  his  efforts, 
which  some  of  his  auditors  considered  as  depre- 
ciating their  estimate  of  the  true  value  of  his  per- 


A   DEPRECATORY  SPEECH.  315 

formance,  and  in  consequence  "  the  goose  "  came 
down,  as  stage-parlance  designates  the  offensive 
use  of  the  sibilant  element  as  an  expression  of 
disapprobation.  The  hissing  grew  to  a  whistling, 
and  the  whistling  to  a  shrill  and  not  melodious 
imitation  of  those  feline  concerts  of  the  midnight 
roof  where  applause  is  generally  bestowed  in 
boots,  bootjacks,  and  old  bottles  as  chance  shots 
warranted  to  hit  everything  except  what  they  are 
aimed  at. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  however,  the  cur- 
tain fell,  and  the  discomfited  Richard  appeared 
before  it  as  a  gentleman ;  which,  by  the  by,  was 
not  by  any  means  his  first  appearance  in  that 
character.  He  soon  convinced  the  audience  that 
though  he  might  not  be  able  to  act  the  tyrant,  he 
could,  at  least,  when  not  riding  his  unfortunate 
dramatic  hobby,  feel  the  oppression  of  ridicule. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  bowing  very 
low  and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  brought  the  house 
to  its  senses  at  once,  "I  have  pairform  ze  character 
of  Richard  ze  Tree  times.  My  concepzion  of  ze 
tyrant  viz  ze  back  and  ze  hump  may  not  be  vat 
you  understand  as  ze  Shakespeare  interpretasion, 
but,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  several  people  look 
many  ways,  not  all  ze  same  in  one  direcsion,  and 
particulaire  at  ze  meaning  of  ze  grand  poet,  vich  I 
very  much  love  and  consider  vith  great  condescen- 
sion. Therefore,  as  I  have  made  ze  mistake,  I  vill 
now  make  ze  apology  by  being  ^j/self  again,  and 
nevare  more  try  to  be  &j0*self  vonce  more  again, 
as  Shakespeare  says  of  Richard  ze  Tree  times. 


31 6  A    CORDIAL   INVITATION. 

Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  before  I  go  away 
allow  me  to  say,  If  any  pairson  present  have  ze 
opinion  of  himsetf  as  more  Richard  ze  Tree  times 
as  /  have  make,  zat  pairson  is  very  much  welcome 
to  vear  my  crown  and  have  my  dress  to  make  ze 
performance.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  will  now 
say,  Your  service  I  am  nevare  no  more  to  forget. 
Bon  soir  I" 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

FORREST  AS  A    YOUTHFUL  AMATEUR. 


night  after  the  play,  having  partaken  of 
a  light  supper,  and  while  smoking  a  cigar,  of 
which  indulgence  he  was  passionately  fond,  Mr. 
Forrest,  being  in  a  cheerful,  chatty  mood,  told 
me  the  following  story  of  his  boyish  experience 
during  the  residence  of  his  parents  in  South- 
wark,  Philadelphia. 

"I  was,"  he  said,  "about  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and  had  won  some  honors  in  school-declamation, 
and  particularly  in  the  recital  of  an  epilogue  by 
Goldsmith  called  'The  Harlequinade.'  My  sis- 
ters had  made  me  a  dress  of  small  chequered  red 
and  black  squares,  after  the  style  usually  worn 
in  stage-pantomime,  which  with  a  dagger  of  lath 
and  the  half  mask  of  black  muslin  and  pasteboard, 
made  up  quite  a  neat  and  effective  costume,  which 
of  course  was  greatly  admired  by  my  companions, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  much  increased  the  applause 
which  always  attended  my  recitation  of  the  epi- 
logue. 

"In  connection  with  the  usual  feats  of  ground 

27*  317 


3l8    SOUTH  STREET   THEATRE,  PHILADELPHIA. 

and  lofty  tumbling  among  the  boys,  they  had  a 
custom  of  walking  on  their  hands  and  throwing 
'somersets/  which  was  learned  from  the  circus- 
riders  and  posture-makers  of  the  times.  One  of 
these  acrobatic  feats  in  which  I  had  become  quite 
an  adept  was  throwing  side  *  somersets,'  or  trans- 
forming myself  into  a  wheel  by  springing  from  my 
hands  to  my  feet,  and  thus  whirling  sidewise  round 
and  round.  I  was  in  the  habit  of  introducing  this 
peculiar  locomotion  at  the  close  of  *  The  Harlequi-, 
nade,'  going  once  or  twice  round  the  platform  and 
springing  off  at  a  bound,  by  wrhich  I  invariably 
'  brought  down  the  house '  with  approving  shouts 
from  my  comrades. 

<l  Of  course  no  boy  in  Southwark  could  possess 
such  accomplishments  and  not  be  the  observed  of 
all  school-boy  observers.  Now,  in  our  neighbor- 
hood stood  the  Old  South  Street  Theatre,  the  first 
built  in  Philadelphia,  or  rather  on  its  outskirts, 
where  it  was  located  to  evade  the  city  laws  against 
theatrical  entertainments.  In  this  theatre,  which 
was  afterward  turned  into  a  whiskey-distillery  or 
brewery,  the  officers  of  the  British  army,  when  oc- 
cupying Philadelphia  under  General  Howe,  were 
in  the  habit  of  acting  for  their  own  amusement 
and  that  of  their  Tory  friends.  The  elegant  and 
unfortunate  Major  Andre  was  the  leading  spirit 
of  the  company,  being  stage-manager,  scene- 
painter,  and  general  actor.  For  many  years  a 
scene  known  to  have  been  painted  by  that  gentle- 
man was  held  in  great  estimation  by  the  various 
companies  which  occupied  the  building  from  time 


FORRESTS  FIRST  ENGAGEMENT.  319 

to  time  after  the  evacuation  of  the  city  by  the 
British  troops.. 

"At  the  time  alluded  to  a  company  of  amateurs, 
consisting  of  printers,  apprentice-boys,  and  some 
gay  lawyers  and  other  drama-loving  individuals, 
were  in  the  habit  of  acting  plays  on  Saturday 
nights,  charging  a  small  fee  for  admittance.  One 
Saturday  afternoon  I  was  playing  my  usual  game 
of  marbles,  with  my  knuckles  well  chalked,  and  it 
may  be  somewhat  grimy,  when  a  young  fellow 
came  up  and  asked  me  if  I  was  Ned  Forrest,  the 
spouting  school-boy.  I  replied  that  I  was  Ned, 
and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  He  said  if  I 
would  come  with  him  for  a  moment  out  of  the 
crowd  he  would  tell  me  of  a  way  by  which  I  could 
make  a  dollar  or  two  very  easily.  Putting  up  my 
store  of  marbles,  I  walked  aside  with  him,  when  he 
informed  me  that  he  was  one  of  the  South  Street 
Theatre  actors,  and  that  he  wanted  me  to  'go  on  * 
for  a  lady's  part — that  the  lady  was  sick,  and  they 
could  not  fill  her  place  unless  I  would  consent  to 
do  it. 

11  Of  course  I  jumped  at  the  offer,  but  then  came 
the  difficulties.  In  the  first  place,  I  could  not  study 
the  part  at  so  short  a  notice,  but  he  said  I  could 
read  it;  the  lady  was  a  captive  in  a  Turkish  pris- 
on, and  I  could  recline  on  a  sofa  and  read  the  part. 
I  asked  him  where  the  dress  was  to  come  from, 
and  he  said  the  lady-artist  would  not  lend  hers. 
Then  I  told  him  that  my  sister's  dresses  would  fit 
me  very  well — that  I  had  often  tried  them  on,  but 
that  they  were  rather  short  in  the  skirt.  He  said 


320  AN  IMPROVISED    COSTUME. 

that  was  of  no  consequence ;  he  was  '  the  manager 
in  distress,'  and  that  I  could  cover  up  my  feet  with  a 
shawl,  and  while  lying  on  the  couch  nobody  would 
perceive  the  shortness  of  the  dress.  But  I  asked 
what  I  should  do  about  my  hair,  and  he  said  there 
was  at  the  theatre  'a  cavalry  helmet  with  a  long 
black  horse-tail,  which  could  be  taken  off  and 
parted  over  my  head  and  hang  down  over  my 
shoulders.  Then  he  added  that  I  could  get  one 
of  my  mother's  window- curtains  or  bolster-cases, 
which  could  be  pinned  around  my  head  for  a  tur- 
ban, and  I  would  be  all  right. 

" '  That's  first-rate,'  said  I ;  '  and  now  I  am  en- 
gaged, and  will  be  on  hand,  sure.' 

"  All  was  settled.  No  one  was  to  know  who  the 
new  recruit  was,  so  no  one  at  home  would  have  oc- 
casion to  feel  compromised  by  my  appearing  on  the 
stage.  Thus  was  I  engaged,  and  within  two  or  three 
hours  I  was  to  arrive  at  the  height  of  a  boy's  ambi- 
tion— to  act  a  part  on  the  stage  of  a  real  theatre. 

"Night  came.  The  curtain  rose  and  discovered 
me  lying  on  a  couch,  but,  sad  to  tell,  the  lights 
were  too  dim,  being  only  tallow  candles,  for  me  to 
see  to  read  my  part.  It  was  a  soliloquy,  however, 
and  I  took  my  time,  and  have  no  doubt  that  I  impro- 
vised additions  to  the  text,  though  I  am  not  quite 
sure  they  were  improvements.  But  the  audience 
did  not  seem  to  notice  the  shortcomings  of  the  he- 
roine, and  I  began  to  feel  that  it  was  all  right,  when 
the  governor  or  some  other  character  came  on,  and 
then  I  was  compelled  to  look  more  closely  to  the 
words.  Finding  it  almost  impossible  where  I  sat  to 


THE   GREAT  ACTOR   RECOGNIZED.         321 

read  the  part,  and  observing  that  the  lamps  of  the 
side-scenes  were  considerably  brighter  than  the 
footlights,  in  an  unlucky  moment  I  jumped  off  the 
couch  and  ran  to  the  wings  to  catch  the  light  upon 
the  page  of  my  book.  Under  the  original  ar- 
rangement my  short  dress  was  to  be  eked  out 
with  a  shawl,  so  I  had  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  change  my  boots  or  my  stockings,  which  latter 
were  of  the  kind  called  Germantown  wool.  I  had 
managed  from  my  new  position  to  get  at  the  first 
speech,  which  was  only  a  line  or  two ;  then  the 
other  character  had  a  long  reply  to  make,  and 
while  I  was  endeavoring  to  get  a  peep  at  the  next 
page  I  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  shrill  voice  from 
the  pit  shouting  out,  'That's  Ned  Forrest ;  twig  his 
Germantown  stockings  and  his  boots.  Hurrah  for 
Ned  Forrest !'  This  was  too  much  for  the  temper 
or  patience  of  the  audience,  and  laughing,  hissing, 
and  clapping  of  hands  struggled  for  the  mastery. 

"  Knowing  it  was  all  up  with  my  part  of  the 
performance,  I  threw  down  the  book,  and  run- 
ning to  the  footlights  just  opposite  the  spot  from 
which  came  the  voice,  saw  a  well-known  face,  red 
as  a  beet  with  laughing  and  shouting.  Shaking 
my  fist  at  the  rascal,  I  cried,  *  Bill  Jones,  I'll  lick 
you  like  the  devil  the  first  time  I  catch  you  on 
the  street — remember  that!' 

"The  audience  had  stopped  the  uproar  for  a 
moment,  but  now  it  became  a  fearful  storm  of 
applause,  hisses,  and  cries  of  'Turn  him  out!' 
'  Off!  off!'  while  a  heavy  hand  fell  on  my  shoul- 
der, and  the  next  moment  I  was  whirled  off  the 


322         AN  UNCALLED-FOR  PERFORMANCE. 

stage,  and  that  part  of  the  play  came  to  a  close. 
While  I  was  changing  my  female  dress  for  my  own 
clothes,  however,  I  determined  upon  another  dem- 
onstration. I  knew  enough  about  stage-matters 
to  calculate  upon  the  interval  between  the  play 
and  farce ;  so,  keeping  quiet,  and  being  for  the 
moment  forgotten,  I  waited  till  the  curtain  fell  on 
the  play.  Then,  watching  my  opportunity,  I  took 
a  survey,  and,  as  I  supposed,  the  stage  was  dark, 
the  music  playing,  and  the  actors  all  engaged  in 
dressing.  Near  the  stage-door  was  a  small  beer- 
shop,  and,  peeping  in,  I  saw  the  prompter  and  my 
friend  the  manager 'drinking  a  mug  of  beer.  This 
was  my  time.  I  ran  home,  got  my  Harlequin 
dress,  slipped  out  of  the  house,  and  returned  to 
the  theatre.  It  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  mo- 
ments to  re-array  myself,  put  on  my  mask,  seize 
my  sword  of  lath,  and  run  down  to  the  stage- 
entrance.  The  prompter  had  not  returned,  the 
music  had  stopped,  and  the  house  was  quiet. 

"  I  rang  the  prompter's  bell ;  the  curtain  rose  ;  I 
ran  on  the  stage,  and  began  my  recitation  amid  a 
dead  silence,  but  applause  soon  cheered  me,  in- 
creasing as  I  proceeded ;  and  at  the  close  I  threw 
myself  on  my  hands  and  went  whirling  round  the 
boards  amid  shouts  and  hurrahs,  and  then  sprang 
off  the  stage,  where  I  was  received  by  my  ungrate- 
ful manager,  who  gave  me  a  good  shaking  and 
told  me  to  quit  the  premises  and  never  try  that 
trick  again." 

The  following  are  the  lines  recited  by  Mr.  For- 
rest on  the  occasion  referred  to : 


HARLEQUIN'S  EPILOGUE.  323 

/ 
/  EPILOGUE. 

Written  by  Goldsmith,  and  originally  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewis, 
in  the  Character  of  Harlequin,  at  his  Benefit. 

Hold,  prompter !  hold  !     A  word  before  your  nonsense : 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said 
My  heels  eclipsed  the  honors  of  my  head — 
That  I  found  humor  in  a  piebald  vest, 

Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest.     [Takes  off  his  mask. 
Whence  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth? 
Nature  disowns  and  Reason  scorns  thy  mirth. 
In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps — 
The  joy  that  dimples  and  the  woe  that  weeps. 
How  hast  thou  filled  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 
Of  fools  pursuing  and  of  fools  pursued, 
Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 
Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses, 
Whilst  from  below  the  trapdoor  demons  rise, 
And  from  above  the  dangling  deities  ! 
And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallowed  crew  ? 
May  rosined  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do  ! 
No,  I  will  act — I'll  vindicate  the  stage; 
Shakespeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 
Off,  off,  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns ; 
The  maddening  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 
Oh  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme : 
"  Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  !     Soft !  'twas 
but  a  dream." 

Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating; 

If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 

'Twas  thus  that  ^Esop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 

Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 

Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 

And  cavilled  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 

"  The  deuce  confound,"  he  cries,  "  these  drumstick  shanks ! 

They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks ; 


324  FORREST'S  STRENGTH  OF   WILL. 

They're  perfectly  disgraceful.     Strike  me  dead  ! 

But  for  a  head —    Yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 

How  piercing  is  that  eye !  how  sleek  that  brow  ! 

My  horns —     I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now." 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonished  to  his  view 

Near  and  more  near  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  drew. 

"Hoicks!  hark  forward  !"  came  thundering  from  behind. 

He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind ; 

He  quits  the  woods  and  tries  the  beaten  ways ; 

He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze. 

At  length  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 

Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore, 

Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 

And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself — like  me. 

\_Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage-door. 

"  By  the  performance  of  that  night,"  said  Mr. 
Forrest,  referring  to  the  incident  previously  related, 
"  my  destiny  was  sealed.  I  felt  that  I  was  to  be 
an  actor,  and  that  an  actor  I  would  be,  come  what 
might." 

FORREST'S  LACK  OF  IMAGINATION. 

Here  was  an  early  manifestation  of  that  will 
which  no  opposing  power  in  after-life  could  ever 
break.  Poverty  and  toil  were  braved  and  borne 
unflinchingly,  and  always  with  a  hopeful  if  not  a 
cheerful  heart.  Boy  and  man,  he  fought  on 
through  every  difficulty,  surmounting  every  ob- 
stacle, until  his  dreams  of  histrionic  honors  were 
realized. 

Mr.  Forrest's  predominating  characteristic  was 
strength,  which  seemed  in  a  great  measure  to 
tinge  all  the  gentler  qualities  of  his  nature.  In 
the  tragedy  of  Macbeth  the  guilty  thane  mani- 


HIS   WANT  OF  IMAGINATION.  325 

fests  the  power  of  imagination,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  which  he  starts  at  shadows,  while  at  the 
same  time  he  compels  "all  causes  to  give  way" 
before  his  cruel  purpose ;  but  his  unimaginative 
wife,  "  the  unsexed  woman,"  exhibits  the  fixed 
determination  of  the  wilful  mind  and  scoffs  at 
painted  fear.  Had  Mr.  Forrest  been  a  woman, 
he  could  and  would  have  played  Lady  Macbeth, 
the  woman  of  will,  better  than  as  a  man  he  did 
play  Macbeth,  whose  imagination  interfered  with 
his  will.  Mr.  Forrest  had  but  little  imagination 
In  Macbeth  he  looked  at  the  air-drawn  dagger4 
with  such  an  intense  scrutiny  that  one  would  have 
supposed  he  deemed  it  a  juggler's  illusion,  and  in 
a  certain  sense  he  expressed  a  feeling  of  anger 
that  he  was  not  able  to  clutch  it.  His  manner  did 
not  indicate  that  conscience,  leagued  with  imagina- 
tion, had  conjured  up  the  fearful  agent  to  appall 
him  and  arrest  his  arm ;  and  the  visionary  dagger 
was  evidently  less  terrible  to  him  than  if  it  had 
been  a  real  one.  In  the  first  act  Macbeth  says,\ 

This  supernatural  soliciting 

Cannot  be  ill,  cannot  be  good  :  if  ill, 

Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 

Commencing  in  a  truth  ?     I  am  thane  of  Cawdor : 

If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 

Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair 

And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs 

Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 

Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings : 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 

Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 

Is  smothered  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 

But  what  is  not. 
28 


326  KNIFE-SHARPENING   SHYLOCKS. 

Here  Macbeth  stands,  as  Banquo  says,  wrapt  in 
thought — "  See  how  our  partner's  wrapt " — carried 
from  the  present  into  the  future,  while  every  sense 
is  held  in  abeyance  by  the  working  of  the  mind. 
The  language  clearly  indicates  this,  and  yet  Mr. 
Forrest  illustrated  the  words, 

And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs 
Against  the  use  of  nature, 

by  striking  his  armed  breast  with  his  truncheon, 
thereby  transforming  what  was  a  silent  inner  force 
into  a  very  noisy  outward  one. 

When  a  young  man  acting  Shylock,  Mr.  Forrest 
was  in  the  habit  of  carrying  in  his  gaberdine  a 
small  whetstone  for  sharpening  the  knife  with 
which  he  expected  to  cut  the  pound  of  flesh.  This 
I  never  saw,  but  I  was  told  of  it  by  an  old  actor 
of  the  Bowery  Theatre,  New  York,  who  vouched 
for  its  truth.  Here  was  enough  of  the  material 
for  the  most  matter-of-fact  mind,  and  quite  as  pal- 
pable a  misinterpretation  of  Shakespeare  as  the 
action  of  certain  other  Shylocks,  who  whet  the 
knife  by  sweeping  it  in  wide  reaches  over  the 
stage ;  for  Bassanio  says, 

Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  ? 
Shylock  replies, 

To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 
Gratiano  retorts, 

Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  makest  thy  knife  keen. 


THOMAS  HAMB LIN'S  PROPHECY.  327 

Certainly  no  stage -direction  is  needed  here  to 
show  that  the  sole  of  the  shoe  is  indicated  for  the 
sharpening  of  the  knife. 

The  deep  tones  of  Mr.  Forrest's  voice,  mingled 
with  the  peculiar  huskiness  which  generally 
marked  his  utterance,  gave  great  intensity  to 
his  expression  of  rage  and  scorn,  and  even  in  his 
ordinary  conversation  not  unfrequently  suggest- 
ed a  degree  of  bitterness  which  he  probably  did 
not  intend.  Mr.  Thomas  Hamblin,  the  tragedian, 
once  said  to  me,  in  reference  to  the  sullen  manner 
of  Mr.  Forrest — which  I  have  no  doubt  was  the  re- 
sult in  a  great  measure  of  his  constant  and  wear- 
ing professional  labors — "Forrest  is  not  now  con- 
scious of  it,  but  he  will  yet  realize  the  fact  that  con- 
stant growling  at  people  will  cause  him,  in  time,  to 
growl  at  himself.  He  is  building  around  himself, 
as  I  may  say,  a  wall,  which  every  year  is  increasing 
in  height,  so  that  after  a  while  no  one  will  be  able 
to  get  a  peep  at  him ;  and  he  will  then  feel,  when 
it  is  too  late,  that  he  has  shut  the  world  out,  and 
cut  himself  off  from  all  social  intercourse  save 
with  the  petting  and  the  petted  few  to  whom  he 
extends  an  open  sesame  to  his  varying  moods  of 
bitterness  and  mirth."  This  was  said  in  1847  or 
'48.  My  own  impression  is,  that  before  Forrest's 
temper  had  been. entirely  soured  by  unfortunate 
circumstances  he  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and 
any  other  profession  than  his  own  might  have 
developed  in  him  a  humanity  "  as  broad  and  gen- 
eral as  the  casing  air."  He  .openly  avowed  him- 
self a  good  hater,  and  expected  others  to  hate 


328       FORREST'S  POSTHUMOUS  MONUMENT. 

those  he  hated  with  a  seventy  equal  to  his  own. 
"  To  err  is  human,  to  forgive  divine ;"  but  this  was 
not  his  creed.  Mr.  Forrest  was  ambitious  of  post- 
humous honor.  He  worked  hard  long  after  his 
profession  had  ceased  to  be  a  source  of  pleasure 
to  him.  He  continued  to  act  merely  for  the  ac- 
cumulation of  money,  his  sole  and  cherished  object 
being  to  build  up  a  monument  to  his  memory  such 
as  the  actor  Alleyne  founded  in  Dulwich  College — 
an  asylum  for  superannuated  actors — although  in 
his  lifetime  he  manifested  for  his  needy  profes- 
sional brethren  no  interest  whatever.  In  his  ex- 
treme care  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  failure, 
however,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  he  has  not 
really  defeated  the  purpose  for  which  he  labored 
so  long.  He  laid  the  foundation,  as  it  now  ap- 
pears, of  a  visionary  benefaction,  which  is  likely 
to  operate  only  in  an  oblique  direction,  and  will 
probably  reach  very  few  of  those  for  whom  it 
was  intended. 


JOHN  BATES  AND   FORREST. 

In  the  midst  of  Mr.  Forrest's  popularity,  when 
making  a  journey  from  New  Orleans  to  the  East, 
he  was  not  at  all  in  a  good  humor  with  himself, 
on  account  of  overwork  and  ill-health.  While 
stopping  in  Louisville  to  rest,  his  old  friend,  Mr. 
Sarzedas,  then  stage- director  for  John  Bates,  the 
well-known  Western  manager,  called  on  him  and 
tendered  him  an  engagement  for  twelve  nights — 
six  in  Louisville  and  six  in  Cincinnati.  For  the 


BARGAINS   CUTTING   BOTH    WAYS.          329 

reason  already  mentioned,  and  because  the  season 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  Mr.  Forrest  did  not  wish 
to  act ;  but  as  the  theatre  was  without  a  star  per- 
former, Mr.  Sarzedas  urged  the  matter,  and  he  at 
last  consented  to  play  six  nights  in  each  city,  the 
terms  to  be  half  the  gross  receipts.  The  engage- 
ment turned  out  in  Louisville  as  Mr.  Forrest 
thought  it  would,  but  poorly  for  either  star  or 
manager.  Better  for  the  former,  of  course,  as  he 
had  no  company  to  pay,  while  the  latter  did  not 
receive  enough  to  cover  his  expenses.  Mr.  For- 
rest was  mortified  at  the  result  in  Louisville,  and 
wished  to  annul  the  engagement  for  Cincinnati, 
on  the  original  ground  of  overwork  and  ill-health. 
But  Manager  Bates  would  not  release  him  from 
the  contract,  and  insisted  on  its  fulfilment.  Mr. 
Forrest  stoutly  objected,  however,  and  as  there 
was  no  written  agreement,  he  considered  the 
whole  thing  a  failure  and  was  determined  to  pro- 
ceed on  his  journey  to  the  East.  Mr.  Sarzedas 
at  this  juncture  suggested  that  Mr.  Bates  should 
re-engage  the  tragedian  at  a  certain  amount  per 
night ;  and  finally  the  parties  agreed  that  two  hun- 
dred dollars  should  be  the  payment  for  each  per- 
formance. Upon  this  settlement  the  engagement 
was  closed,  and  Mr.  Forrest  opened  in  Cincinnati 
to  a  full  house,  whereupon  he  became  disgusted, 
seeing  that  his  fixed  salary  would  fall  far  short 
of  what  his  share  of  half  the  receipts  would 
have  been.  He  accordingly  refused  to  act  his 
most  telling  parts,  such  as  Spartacus  and  Jack 
Cade,  and  insisted  upon  performing  Rolla,  Vir- 

28* 


330         A    COMPLIMENTARY  EXPLANATION. 

ginius,  etc. ;  but  in  the  face  of  all  this  the  theatre 
continued  to  be  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity. 

One  morning  Mr.  Forrest,  in  -company  with 
our  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Peter  Logan,  was  in  the 
box-office,  when  Mr.  Bates,  who  was  "  counting  up 
the  house,"  as  it  is  termed,  handed  a  slip  of  paper 
to  Mr.  Logan  and  said,  "  That's  the  biggest  pig  in 
the  pen  yet — over  one  thousand  dollars  in  the  house 
last  night;"  at  which  Mr.  Forrest  remarked,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Mr.  Logan,  "  It  is  perfectly  won- 
derful to  see  such  houses ;  I  had  no  idea  that  the 
patrons  of  the  drama  in  Cincinnati  were  so  nu- 
merous." John  Bates  was  a  very  practical  man, 
blunt  at  times  even  to  rudeness,  of  a  somewhat 
taciturn  disposition,  cynical,  dry,  and  very  deliber- 
ate in  speech.  He  had  also  a  strange  habit  of 
making  a  kind  of  snipping  sound  with  his  lips,  as 
if  he  were  spitting,  between  his  sentences,  which 
gave*  his  manner  an  appearance  of  nervousness. 
But  there  was  no  such  weakness  about  Bates : 
he  was  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  and  without  a  par- 
ticle of  the  greenness  of  that  vegetable.  When 
Mr.  Forrest  expressed  wonder  at  the  multitudes 
of  people  who  came  to  his  performances,  Bates 
turned  and  said  in  the  driest  possible  way,  "Why, 
Mr.  Forrest,  maybe  you  don't  know  that  Tom 
Thumb  is  exhibiting  in  Cincinnati.  He  holds  forth 
only  in  the  morning ;  so  the  people  who  come  to 
town  to  see  his  show,  having  nothing  better  to 
do  at  night,  come  to  the  theatre  to  see  you  act." 
My  old  and  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Logan,  in  tell- 
ing the  story,  said  that  the  faces  of  the  two  men 


LAMB'S  STORY  OF  BARBARA   S .       331 

were  a  perfect  study  after  Bates  had  made  his  re- 
marks— Forrest  nearly  choking  with  indignation, 
and  looking  as  if  he  could  eat  the  manager  with- 
out "a  grain  of  salt,"  while  Bates  continued  to 
count  his  tickets  as  complacently  as  if  he  had 
been  offering  the  tragedian  a  compliment. 

BARBARA   S . 

The  following  touching  incident  from  the  pen  of 
Charles  Lamb  points  in  a  feeling  manner  to  the 
hard  lot  of  those  who  in  privation  and  suffering 
begin  at  the  bottom  of  the  theatrical  ladder  and 
steadily  toil  upward  in  pursuit  of  daily  bread  and 
Fortune's  perspective  favors : 

On  the  noon  of  the  i4th  of  November,  1743  or  '44,  I  for- 
get which — it  was  just  as  the  clock  had  struck  one — Barbara 

S ,  with  her  accustomed  punctuality,  ascended  the  long, 

rambling  staircase,  with  awkward  interposed  landing-places, 
which  led  to  the  office,  or  rather  a  sort  of  box  with  a  desk  in 
it,  whereat  sat  the  then  treasurer  of  (what  few  of  our  readers 
may  remember)  the  old  Bath  Theatre.  All  over  the  island  it 
was  the  custom — and  remains  so,  I  believe,  to  this  day — for 
the  players  to  receive  their  weekly  stipend  on  the  Saturday. 
It  was  not  much  that  Barbara  had  to  claim. 

This  little  maid  had  just  entered  her  eleventh  year,  but  her 
important  station  at  the  theatre,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  the 
benefits  which  she  felt  to  accrue  from  her  pious  application  of 
her  small  earnings,  had  given  an  air  of  womanhood  to  her 
steps  and  to  her  behavior.  You  would  have  taken  her  to  be 
at  least  five  years  older. 

Till  latterly  she  had  merely  been  employed  in  choruses  or 
where  children  were  wanted  to  fill  up  the  scene.  But  the 
manager,  observing  a  diligence  and  adroitness  in  her  above 
her  age,  had  for  some  few  months  past  entrusted  to  her  the 


33 2  AN  IMPOVERISHED   FAMILY. 

performance  of  whole  parts.  You  may  guess  the  self-conse- 
quence of  the  promoted  Barbara.  She  had  already  drawn 
tears  in  young  Arthur;  had  rallied  Richard  with  infantine 
petulance  in  the  Duke  of  York ;  and  in  her  turn  had  rebuked 
that  petulance  when  she  was  Prince  of  Wales.  She  would 
have  done  the  elder  child  in  Morton's  pathetic  afterpiece 
to  the  life,  but  as  yet  the  Children  in  the  Wood  was  not. 

Long  after  this  little  girl  was  grown  an  aged  woman  I  have 
seen  some  of  these  small  parts,  each  making  two  or  three 
pages  at  most,  copied  out  in  the  rudest  hand  of  the  then 
prompter,  who  doubtless  transcribed  a  little  more  carefully 
and  fairly  for  the  grown-up  tragedy-ladies  of  the  establish- 
ment. But  such  as  they  were,  blotted  and  scrawled  as  for  a 
child's  use,  she  kept  them  all,  and  in  the  zenith  of  her  after 
reputation  it  was  a  delightful  sight  to  behold  them  bound  up 
in  costliest  morocco,  each  single,  each  small  part,  making  a 
book  with  fine  clasps,  gilt-splashed,  etc.  She  had  conscien- 
tiously kept  them  as  they  had  been  delivered  to  her ;  not  a 
blot  had  been  effaced  or  tampered  with.  They  were  precious 
to  her  for  their  affecting  remembrances.  They  were  her  prin- 
cipia,  her  rudiments,  the  elementary  atoms — the  little  steps 
by  which  she  pressed  forward  to  perfection.  "What,"  she 
would  say,  "could  India-rubber  or  a  pumice-stone  have  done 
for  these  darlings?" 

As  I  was  about  to  say,  at  the  desk  of  the  then  treasurer  of 
the  old  Bath  Theatre — not  Diamond's — presented  herself  the 

little  Barbara  S .  The  parents  of  Barbara  had  been  in 

reputable  circumstances.  The  father  had  practised,  I  believe, 
as  an  apothecary  in  the  town.  But  his  practice — from  causes 
which  I  feel  my  own  infirmity  too  sensibly  that  way  to  arraign, 
or  perhaps  from  that  pure  infelicity  which  accompanies  some 
people  in  their  walk  through  life,  and  which  it  is  impossible 
to  lay  at  the  door  of  imprudence — was  now  reduced  to  noth- 
ing. They  were,  in  fact,  in  the  very  teeth  of  starvation  when 
the  manager,  who  knew  and  respected  them  in  better  days, 
took  the  little  Barbara  into  his  company. 

At  the  period  I  commenced  with  her  slender  earnings  were 
the  sole  support  of  the  family,  including  two  younger  sisters. 


RAVENSCROFT  THE   TREASURER.  333 

I  must  throw  a  veil  over  some  mortifying  circumstances. 
Enough  to  say,  that  her  Saturday's  pittance  was  the  only 
chance  of  a  Sunday's  (generally  their  only)  meal  of  meat. 
One  thing  I  will  only  mention,  that  in  some  child's  part, 
where  in  the  theatrical  character  she  was  to  sup  off  a  roast 
fowl  (oh  joy  to  Barbara !)  some  comic  actor,  who  was  the 
night's  caterer  for  this  dainty,  in  the  misguided  humor  of  his 
part  threw  over  the  dish  such  a  quantity  of  salt  (oh  grief  and 
pain  of  heart  to  Barbara !)  that  when  she  crammed  a  portion 
of  it  into  her  mouth  she  was  obliged  sputteringly  to  reject  it ; 
and,  what  with  shame  of  her  ill-acted  part  and  pain  of  real 
appetite  at  missing  such  a  dainty,  her  little  heart  sobbed 
almost  to  breaking,  till  a  flood  of  tears,  which  the  well-fed 
spectators  were  totally  unable  to  comprehend,  mercifully  re- 
lieved her. 

This  was  the  little  starved,  meritorious  maid  who  stood 
before  old  Ravenscroft,  the  treasurer,  for  her  Saturday's  pay- 
ment. 

Ravenscroft  was  a  man,  I  have  heard  many  old  theatrical 
people  besides  herself  say,  of  all  men  least  calculated  for  a 
treasurer.  He  had  no  head  for  accounts,  paid  away  at  ran- 
dom, kept  scarce  any  books,  and,  summing  up  at  the  week's 
end,  if  he  found  himself  a  pound  or  so  deficient,  blessed  him- 
self that  it  was  no  worse.  Now,  Barbara's  weekly  stipend  was 
a  bare  half-guinea.  By  mistake  he  popped  into  her  hand  a 
whole  one. 

Barbara  tripped  away.  She  was  entirely  unconscious  at  first 
of  the  mistake :  God  knows,  Ravenscroft  would  never  have 
discovered  it.  But  when  she  had  got  down  to  the  first  of 
those  uncouth  landing-places  she  became  sensible  of  an  un- 
usual weight  of  metal  pressing  her  little  hand. 

Now  mark  the  dilemma.  She  was  by  nature  a  good  girl. 
From  her  parents  and  those  about  her  she  had  imbibed  no 
contrary  influence.  But  then  they  had  taught  her  nothing. 
Poor  men's  smoky  cabins  are  not  always  porticos  of  moral 
philosophy.  This  little  maid  had  no  instinct  to  evil,  but  then 
she  might  be  said  to  have  no  fixed  principle.  She  had  heard 
honesty  commended,  but  never  dreamed  of  its  application 


334  A    TEMPTATION  OVERCOME. 

to  herself.  She  thought  of  it  as  something  which  concerned 
grown-up  people,  men  and  women.  She  had  never  known 
temptation,  or  thought  of  preparing  resistance  against  it. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  go  back  to  the  old  treasurer  and 
explain  to  him  his  blunder.  He  was  already  so  confused 
with  age,  besides  a  natural  want  of  punctuality,  that  she  would 
have  had  some  difficulty  in  making  him  understand  it.  She 
saw  that  in  an  instant.  And  then  it  was  such  a  bit  of  money  ! 
And  then  the  image  of  a  larger  allowance  of  butcher's  meat 
on  their  table  next  day  came  across  her,  till  her  little  eyes 
glistened  and  her  mouth  moistened.  But  then  Mr.  Ravens- 
croft  had  always  been  so  good-natured — had  stood  her  friend 
behind  the  scenes,  and  even  recommended  her  promotion  to 
some  of  her  little  parts.  But,  again,  the  old  man  was  reputed 
to  be  worth  a  world  of  money.  He  was  supposed  to  have  fifty 
pounds  a  year  clear  of  the  theatre.  And  then  came  staring 
upon  her  the  figures  of  her  little  stockingless  and  shoeless 
sisters.  And  when  she  looked  at  her  own  neat  white  cotton 
stockings — which  her  situation  at  the  theatre  had  made  it  indis- 
pensable for  her  mother  to  provide  for  her  with  hard  straining 
and  pinching  from  the  family  stock — and  thought  how  glad  she 
should  be  to  cover  their  poor  feet  with  the  same,  and  how  then 
they  would  accompany  her  to  rehearsals,  which  they  had  hith- 
erto been  precluded  from  doing  by  reason  of  their  unfashion- 
able attire, — in  these  thoughts  she  reached  the  second  land- 
ing-place ;  the  second,  I  mean,  from  the  top,  for  there  was 
still  another  left  to  traverse. 

Now  Virtue  support  Barbara !  And  that  never-failing  friend 
did  step  in,  for  at 'that  moment  a  strength  not  her  own,  I  have 
heard  say,  was  revealed  to  her — a  reason  above  reasoning — 
and  without  her  own  agency,  as  it  seemed  (for  she  never  felt 
her  feet  to  move),  she  found  herself  transported  back  to  the 
individual  desk  she  had  just  quitted,  and  her  hand  in  the  old 
hand  of  Ravenscroft,  who  in  silence  took  back  the  refunded 
treasure,  and  who  had  been  sitting  (good  man  !)  insensible 
to  the  lapse  of  minutes  which  to  her  were  anxious  ages ;  and 
from  that  moment  a  deep  peace  fell  upon  her  heart  and  she 
knew  the  quality  of  honesty. 


A    TRANSFORMED  ACTOR.  335 

A  year  or  two's  unrepining  application  to  her  profession 
brightened  up  the  feet  and  the  prospects  of  her  little  sisters, 
set  the  whole  family  upon  their  legs  again,  and  released  her 
from  the  difficulty  of  discussing  moral  dogmas  upon  a  land- 
ing-place. 

I  have  heard  her  say  that  it  was  a  surprise  not  much  short  of 
mortification  to  her  to  see  the  coolness  with  which  the  old 
man  pocketed  the  difference  which  had  caused  her  such  mor- 
tal throes. 

This  anecdote  of  herself  I  heard  in  the  year  1800  from  the 
mouth  of  the  late  Mrs.  Crawford,*  then  sixty-seven  years  of 
age  (she  died  soon  after) ;  and  to  her  struggles  upon  this  child- 
ish occasion  I  have  sometimes  ventured  to  think  her  indebted 
for  that  power  of  rending  the  heart  in  the  representation  of 
conflicting  emotions  for  which  in  after  years  she  was  consid- 
ered as  little  inferior  (if  at  all  so  in  the  part  of  Lady  Ran- 
dolph) even  to  Mrs.  Siddons. 


ANECDOTE  OF  A  QUACK  DOCTOR. 

Walking  about  the  town  of  Warren,  Ohio,  dur- 
ing the  early  part  of  a  day  on  the  evening  of 
which  I  was  to  give  a  reading,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  crowd  gathered  around  a  smart 
turnout  consisting  of  a  gayly-painted  half  carriage, 
half  peddler's  wagon,  to  which  were  attached  a 
pair  of  dashing  black  horses  in  tawdry  harness 
with  silver-plated  mountings. 

A  man  was  addressing  the  crowd  from  the  driv- 
ing-box of  the  vehicle.  He  was  dressed  in  black, 
but  wore  a  wide-brimmed  white  hat,  from  which 
flowed  the  long  ends  of  a  broad  blue  ribbon.  His 

*  The  maiden  name  of  this  lady  was  Street,  which  she  changed,  by 
successive  marriages,  for  those  of  Dancer,  Barry,  and  Crawford.  She 
was  Mrs.  Crawford,  and  a  third  time  a  widow,  when  I  knew  her. 


33 6  A   FLUENT  PILL-VENDOR. 

beard  and  hair  were  black,  and  evidently  false. 
Such  expressions  as  the  following  struck  my  ear 
as  I  stood  upon  the  curb  of  the  opposite  pave- 
ment: 

"  You,  sir,  you  have  a  liver.  You  feel  it,  I  have 
no  doubt,  and  I  know,  by  the  white  of  your  eye 
being  so  yellow — pardon  the  bull — you  are  bilious; 
which  means  you  have  too  much  bile."  Then  came 
a  flood  of  words,  in  which  I  could  distinguish  now 
and  then  "chyle — bile  —  gall — liver — stomach — 
churning — secretions — obstructions — improper  as- 
similations— blood-vessels  gorged — head  giddy — 
bad  humor — quarrel  with  sweetheart — scold  wife 
— bad  temper ;  can't  help  it — send  for  doctor — big 
bill — no  cure.  True  remedy,  this  box  I  hold  in 
my  hand,  the  poor  man's  friend — cure  at  once — 
instant  relief — made  happy  in  four-and- twenty- 
hours —  no  trouble  with  wife  or  sweetheart  or 
friend — shake  hands  with  self  every  morning.  And 
only  twenty-five  cents!" 

Then  followed  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  hands 
were  extended  in  all  directions  for  the  magic 
boxes,  when  the  speaker  wound  up  with,  "All 
gone,  ladies  and  gentlemen — not  even  '  one  more 
left/  as  the  razor-man  says.  Go  home — get  more 
— be  back  this  afternoon.  Grateful  for  favors — 
public  interest  at  heart.  Till  then  humble  servant. 
Good-bye."  A  low  bow,  and  off  went  the  doctor 
and  his  spanking  blacks  with  the  travelling  pill- 
shop. 

As  I  walked  home  to  my  tavern  I  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  idea  that  all  this  adroitly-managed  ex- 


AN  OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  DISCOVERED.    337 

hibition  had  a  smack  of  the  stage  about  it.  It 
brought  to  my  memory  an  old  farce  called  Roches- 
ter, in  which  a  mountebank  plays  just  such  tricks. 
As  I  walked  down  the  long  entry-way  to  my  room 
in  the  tavern  I  observed  a  large  poster  tacked  on 
to  a  door,  bearing  an  inscription  stating  that  Doc- 
tor Veritas  was  "  At  home  to  the  afflicted." 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  several  persons 
passed  out,  and  I  found  my  hand  grasped  by  a 
man  in  a  showy  morning-gown  and  a  black  velvet 
cap,  who  warmly  greeted  me  with,  "  Mr.  Murdoch, 
my  old  friend !"  I  soon  recognized  in  the  quack 
doctor  a  former  actor  of  what  is  called  the  "  heavy 
business  "  in  some  of  the  theatres  in  which  I  had 
performed. 

His  story  was,  that  being  out  of  an  engagement 
he  had  taken  up  with  an  itinerant  pill-vendor  who 
was  in  a  consumption  and  needed  an  apt  speaker 
to  sell  his  commodities.  The  man  soon  died,  and 
my  friend  of  the  buskin  became  heir  to  his  effects 
and  business,  and,  finding  his  new  profession  most 
profitable,  had  continued  to  cry  out  his  medical 
nostrums  rather  than  return  to  the  spouting  of 
blank  verse. 

29  W 


CHAPTER   XVII. 
LONDON  THEATRICAL   SENSATIONS. 

A  NEW  departure  from  the  direct  line  of  the- 
•**•  atrical  mannerism  was  exhibited  in  the  case 
of  Master  Betty  the  boy-actor.  The  father  of 
this  prodigy  instructed  him  in  elocution  and  fen- 
cing when  he  was  only  ten  years  old.  At  that  age 
he  manifested  great  strength  of  will  and  decision 
of  character,  and  upon  seeing  Mrs.  Siddons  per- 
form Elvira  in  the  play  of  Pizarro  he  expressed  a 
determination  to  become  an  actor,  affirming  that 
he  would  sooner  die  than  not  go  on  the  stage. 
His  father,  a  man  of  independent  circumstances, 
was  much  surprised,  but  decided  not  to  thwart  his 
inclination,  and  continued  his  instruction,  until  at 
length  Master  Betty  made  his  appearance  at  Bel- 
fast, August  n,  1803,  being  then  about  eleven 
years  old.  He  took  the  town  by  storm,  was  called 
an  "infant  Garrick,"  and  the  Belfast  ladies  pro- 
nounced him  "  a  darling."  He  was  received  with 
similar  enthusiasm  in  Cork,  Waterford,  London- 
derry, Dublin,  and  other  cities,  the  houses  being 
crowded  wherever  he  appeared.  Fame  heralded 
his  approach  to  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  while 
fortune  continued  to  smile  and  the  critics  declared 

338 


MASTER   BETTY  IN  LONDON.  339 

that  he  displayed  all  the  powers  of  Garrick,  Cooke, 
or  Kemble.  He  came  to  London,  and  the  excite- 
ment was  no  less  intense.  Gentlemen  were  crush- 
ed in  the  pit  and  ladies  fainted  in  the  boxes. 

The  public  verdict  may  be  summed  up  in  the 
fact  that  "  Old  Gentleman  Smith,"  the  original 
Charles  Surface,  gave  him  a  seal  bearing  the  like- 
ness of  Garrick,  which  Garrick  in  his  last  illness 
had  charged  him  to  keep  until  he  should  meet  with 
a  player  who  acted  from  nature  and  feeling.  Smith 
pronounced  him  the  proper  person  to  receive  the 
precious  relic.  It  is  said  that  on  a  motion  made 
by  Mr.  Pitt  the  House  of  Commons  adjourned  one 
night  and  went  down  to  the  theatre  to  see  him  act 
Hamlet.  He  continued  to  play  for  two  seasons, 
and  retired  with  a  splendid  fortune. 

It  seems  as  though  Master  Betty  took  posses- 
sion of  the  stage  very  much  as  Blind  Tom  did  of 
the  platform.  His  success  was  not  the  result  of 
cultivation,  but  a  natural  gift,  of  which  the  people 
knew  nothing  save  that  it  filled  them  with  wonder 
and  delight.  He  seemed  to  have  been  the  em- 
bodiment of  passion — a  master  of  words,  but  not 
of  ideas.  Instinct  and  ardor  enabled  him  to  take 
on  the  semblance  of  feeling  as  the  chameleon 
receives  the  color  of  the  object  to  which  it  clings. 
He  learned  words  as  the  parrot  does,  by  rote,  and 
caught  their  meaning  from  the  voice  of  his  pre- 
ceptor. A  talent  for  expressive  speech  and  grace- 
ful action  made  him  the  most  comprehensive  and 
perfect  mimic  of  Nature  that  ever  dazzled  an  au- 
dience. It  is  said  that  he  learned  the  part  of 


34°  MASTER   BETTY'S  ACTING. 

Hamlet  in  three  days,  and  yet,  though  so  quick  at 
catching  words,  he  always  dropped  his  tis.  He 
had  seen  but  little  acting  before  he  appeared  upon 
the  boards,  but  it  is  probable  that  his  father  knew 
something  of  stage-business  and  the  modes  of 
expressive  utterance  peculiar  to  popular  actors, 
and  that  he  reproduced  the  intonations  and  inflec- 
tions he  caught  from  the  recitals  of  his  instructor. 
The  most  attractive  element,  however,  in  Master 
Betty's  performance  must  have  been  the  quality 
and  force  of  his  vocality.  He  was  fresh  and  nat- 
ural, unlike  all  other  favorites,  and  therefore  there 
could  be  no  comparison.  He  was  himself  alone. 
He  had  a  wonderful  memory,  self-possession,  and 
elegance  of  manner,  and  it  would  seem  that  he 
acted  as  he  felt,  like  a  boy,  and  with  the  reckless 
adventure  of  a  boy,  without  the  fear  of  criticism,  he 
entered  upon  his  work  with  a  love  of  its  excitement. 
Without  knowledge  of  the  underlying  principles 
of  dramatic  action,  he  trusted  entirely  to  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  a  law  unto  himself  and  not  an- 
swerable to  any  dictation  but  that  of  his  own  will. 
Had  he  been  old  or  artful  enough  to  copy  any  ex- 
isting model,  he  would  have  thereby  restricted  his 
natural  efforts  and  deadened  his  effects.  As  long 
as  the  ardor  of  youth  prompted  his  action,  it  was 
brilliant  and  effective,  but  when  the  boy  passed  on 
toward  maturity,  with  a  realizing  sense  of  circum- 
stances and  responsibility  came  a  diminution  of 
self-reliance  and  a  restriction  of  impulse.  As  he 
merely  practised  the  functions  of  acting,  without 
studying  the  art  or  its  principles,  experience  was 


REYNOLDS'S  ENCOUNTER    WITH  HIM.      341 

of  no  value,  and  the  flame  of  inspiration  gradually 
faded  and  at  last  died  out. 


A   CONTEMPORANEOUS   OPINION  OF  MASTER 
BETTY  THE   BOY-ACTOR. 

"Just  at  this  time,"  says  Reynolds,  "the  whole 
theatrical  world  was  in  commotion  at  the  expected 
arrival  of  Master  Betty,  whose  celebrity  was  so 
excessive  that,  though  unseen  and  untried  on  the 
London  stage,  it  was  with  truth  averred  that  not 
a  place  could  be  procured  for  his  first  six  nights. 
One  evening  during  the  run  of  The  Blind  Bargain, 
whilst  sitting  in  the  first  circle  shortly  after  the 
commencement  of  the  second  act,  a  gentleman  and 
a  very  pretty  boy,  apparently  about  eleven  years 
of  age,  entered  the  box  and  seated  themselves 
close  to  me.  The  former,  among  various  other 
theatrical  questions,  asked  which  was  Kemble, 
which  was  Lewis,  and  seemed  eagerly  to  devour 
my  replies,  while  the  boy,  engaged  in  the  more 
important  occupation  of  devouring  an  orange, 
seemed  as  inattentive  and  indifferent  to  mine  and 
his  protector's  conversation  as  to  the  proceedings 
on  the  stage.  Between  the  inquisitiveness  of  the 
one  and  the  listlessness  of  the  other,  I  myself  was 
fast  approaching  a  torpid,  ennuye  state,  when  one 
of  the  fruit-women  entered  the  box  and  whispered 
to  me  that  I  was  sitting  between  Master  and  Mr. 
Betty. — 'How  do  you  know?'  quoth  I. — 'From  the 
superintendent  of  the  free  list,'  she  rejoined,  'to 
whom  they  gave  their  names.' 

29* 


342  A   RUSH   TO   SEE    THE    WONDER. 

"Now,  aware  that  this  little  phenomenon,  this 
small — or  rather  great — snowball,  which  had  been 
made  at  Belfast  and  had  rolled  on,  attaining 
through  every  town  additional  magnitude  till  it 
reached  Birmingham,  was  advertised  to  appear 
on  the  following  Monday  as  Achmet  in  Barbarossa, 
I  began  to  believe  the  truth  of  the  fruit- woman's 
information.  Consequently,  curiosity  induced  me 
to  take  another  peep,  when  at  this  moment  the 
door  was  burst  open  and  hundreds,  deserting  their 
boxes,  attempted  to  rush  into  ours.  The  pres- 
sure became  so  extremely  formidable,  that  Mr. 
Betty,  in  considerable  alarm,  called  loudly  for  the 
boxkeeper,  who  not  being  able  to  come  on  ac- 
count of  the  crowd,  I  urgently  requested  the  ter- 
rified father  and  son  to  submit  themselves  to  my 
guidance  ;  and  they,  complying,  followed  me  to  the 
box-door.  The  crowd,  imagining  that  they  should 
have  a  better  view  of  this  parvus  redivivus  Garrick 
in  the  lobby,  made  way  for  us  right  and  left,  when 
I  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  Hill  the  box- 
keeper,  who  opened  a  door  leading  behind  the 
scenes,  and  making  them  enter  it  the  pack  were 
suddenly  'at  fault,'  and  the  pursued  took  safe 
shelter  in  the  cover  of  the  greenroom. 

"  Some  years  after  the  expiration  of  this  absurd 
mania  I  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Betty,  and, 
during  a  negotiation  with  him  relative  to  an  en- 
gagement at  Coven t  Garden  Theatre  I  found  that 
he  possessed  as  much  liberality  and  as  little  vanity 
as  any  gentleman  with  whom  I  have  had  the  plea- 
sure to  be  acquainted.  But,  though  I  give  this 


ENTHUSIASTIC  ADMIRERS.  343 

suffrage  to  the  amiable  qualities  of  his  manhood, 
I  cannot  say  as  much  for  the  histrionic  qualities 
of  his  boyhood,  when,  instead  of  joining  with  the 
enthusiastic  majority  devoted  to  him,  I  openly 
avowed  myself  one  of  the  opposing  minority,  and 
consequently  led  a  life  of  argument  and  tumult. 
As  a  specimen :  During  the  height  of  the  Roscius 
rage,  dining  for  the  first  time  at  Sir  Frederick 
Eden's  house  in  Pall  Mall,  where  there  were  as 
many  fine  ladies  as  fine  gentlemen,  Master  Betty 
was  naturally  the  leading — nay,  the  exclusive — 
subject  of  conversation.  An  elderly  lady,  sighing 
and  throwing  up  her  eyes  toward  the  ceiling,  ex- 
claimed, 'I  fear,  I  fear  we  shall  soon  lose  him,' 
evidently  thinking,  I  presume,  with  Shakespeare, 

So  wise,  so  young,  they  say,  do  ne'er  live  long. 

Another  enthusiast,  fanning  herself,  asserted  with 
much  indignation  that  she  had  no  patience  with 
John  Kemble,  for  when  his  asthma  was  in  its  very 
worst  state,  instead  of  nursing  himself  at  home, 
he  came  into  his  box,  as  if  purposely  for  the  chance 
of  coughing  down  his  paramount  opponent.  A 
third  said  to  a  lady  near  to  her,  'I  saw  your  dear 
boy  to-day,  and  how  I  do  envy  you  !  Certainly  he 
most  strongly  resembles  the  divine  Master  Betty/ 
"I  actually  writhed  under  all  this  ecstatic  non- 
sense, and  my  suppressed  tortures  arose  to  an 
almost  ungovernable  height  when  I  heard  several 
of  the  male  idolaters  add  encomiums  of  an  equal- 
ly extravagant  nature.  At  length  Sir  Frederick 
Eden  said,  '  Reynolds,  why  are  you  silent  ?  From 


344  A   DISSENTIENT  CRITIC. 

your  long  theatrical  experience  you  must  no 
doubt  have  formed  a  good  opinion  on  this  sub- 
ject/— '.Indeed !  a  dramatic  author  in  the  room  ?' 
said  an  old  gentleman.  '  Now,  ladies,  we  shall 
have  fresh  beauties  discovered. — Perhaps,  sir,  you 
remember  Garrick  and  Henderson  ?'  I  bowed 
assent.  '  Now,  sir,  I  ask  you,  upon  your  honor, 
does  not  the  boy  surpass  both  ?' — '  Oh,  certainly/ 
was  the  self-satisfied  murmur  through  the  room. — 
*  No,  sir,'  I  replied,  bursting  with  rage.  '  I  answer, 
upon  my  honor,  that  he  does  not ;  for,  with  all  due 
deference  to  what  has  been  said,  I  doubt  whether 
he  can  even  pronounce  the  very  word  by  which 
he  lives/ — 'And  pray,  sir/  they  simultaneously 
demanded,  '  what  may  that  word  be  ?' — To  which, 
more  and  more  provoked,  I  boldly  replied,  almost 
at  the  risk  of  my  personal  safety,  '  Humbug !' 

"  Here  I  was  interrupted  by  a  yell  so  terrific 
that  probably  I  should  have  been  inclined  to 
qualify  or  soften  this  bold  assertion  had  I  not 
seen,  by  the  secret  signs  and  encouraging  nods 
of  my  worthy  host,  that  he  completely  agreed 
with  me ;  so  I  continued  gallantly  to  defend  my- 
self against  the  attacks  of  my  numerous  and 
tumultuous  assailants  until  the  blue- stocking  part 
of  this  cabal  sent  me  to  Coventry.  Shortly  after- 
ward they  retired,  leaving  me  and  the  male  por- 
tion of  the  company  with  Sir  Frederick,  who  now 
openly  expressed  his  accordance  in  my  opinions, 
and,  laughing,  gave  me  joy  and  said,  '  Pan  quits 
the  plain,  but  Pol  remains/ 

"  However,  my  triumph  was  but  temporary,  for 


ANOTHER  FASHIONABLE  FOLLY.  345 

this  was  one  of  the  houses  to  which  I  was  never 
invited  a  second  time. 

"But,  to  conclude  this  subject:  to  Master  Betty, 
as  a  boy  and  a  bad  actor,  the  whole  town  flocked ; 
to  Mister  Betty,  as  a  man  and  a  good  second-rate 
actor,  scarcely  an  individual  came ;  yet,  for  once, 
the  foolery  of  fashion  had  beneficial  results,  since 
in  the  present  case  it  provided  for  the  after-life  of 
a  most  amiable  young  man  and  his  family." 


A   DOG   MANIA. 

As  London  raved  in  ecstatic  fervor  over  Garrick 
and  titled  equipages  rolled  in  crowds  to  Goodman's 
Fields,  so  kings  and  royal  dukes  and  the  "  quality," 
together  with  the  critics  and  the  "  town,"  all  flocked 
to  the  Betty  carnival.  While  showing  their  admi- 
ration for  all  that  was  famous  or  fashionable,  the 
flood  of  the  royal  and  popular  tide  set  in  the  di- 
rection of  Spa  Fields  under  the  influence  of  the 
dramatic  "dog  mania." 

Reynolds  says:  "A  subordinate  but  enterpris- 
ing actor  of  the  name  of  Costello  collected  at  the 
great  fairs  of  Frankfort  and  Leipsic  a  complete 
company  of  canine  performers,  and  arriving  with 
them  in  England,  Wroughton,  then  manager  of 
Saddler's  Wells,  engaged  him  and  his  wonderful 
troop.  They  were  fourteen  in  all,  and,  unlike 
those  straggling  dancing-dogs  still  occasionally 
seen  in  the  streets,  they  all  acted  respondently 
and  conjointly  with  a  truth  that  appeared  almost 
the  effect  of  reason.  The  '  star/  the  real  star,  of 


34^  A    DUBIOUS   COMPLIMENT. 

the  company  was  an  actor  named  Moustache, 
and  the  piece  produced  as  a  vehicle  for  its  first 
appearance  was  called  The  Deserter.  The  night  I 
was  present  at  this  performance  Saddler's  Wells, 
in  point  of  fashion,  resembled  the  opera-house  on 
a  Saturday  night  during  the  height  of  the  season ; 
princes,  peers,  puppies,  and  pickpockets  all  crowd- 
ing to  see  what  Jack  Churchill,  with  his  accustomed 
propensity  to  punning,  used  to  term  the  illustrious 
dog-stars. 

"  On  this  evening  the  late  Duke  of  Gloucester 
was  also  present.  Wroughton,  who  at  that  time 
frequently  played  at  Drury  Lane  the  parts  of  Lear, 
Evander,  and  other  aged  characters,  was  now,  as 
manager  of  Saddler's  Wells,  dressed  in  court  cos- 
tume, and,  looking  his  real  age — about  thirty-five 
— lighted  His  Royal  Highness  to  his  box.  '  Eh  ? 
how  ?'  exclaimed  the  duke — '  who,  what  are  you  ?' 
— '  My  name  is  Wroughton,  please  Your  Royal 
Highness/ — 'Oh!  what?'  rejoined  the  duke — 
'son  of  old  Wroughton  of  Drury  Lane?' 

"Wroughton,  who  told  me  of  this  whimsical 
error,  said  that  at  first  he  knew  not  whether  to 
receive  it  as  an  affront  or  as  a  compliment ;  how- 
ever, affecting  to  consider  it  as  the  latter,  he  paid 
the  duke  his  acknowledgments  for  unconsciously 
avowing  that  his  assumption  of  old  age  was  not 
distinguishable  from  the  reality. 

"The  curtain  shortly  afterward  rose.  I  will 
pass  over  the  performance  till  the  last  scene, 
merely  remarking  that  the  actors,  Simpkin,  Skir- 
mish, and  Louisa,  were  so  well  dressed  and  so 


INFALLIBLE    TEACHING  FOR   ACTORS.      347 

much  in  earnest  that  in  a  slight  degree  they  actu- 
ally preserved  the  interest  of  the  story  and  the 
illusion  of  the  scene.  But  Moustache  as  the  de- 
serter !  I  see  him  now  in  his  little  uniform,  mili- 
tary boots,  with  smart  musket  and  helmet,  cheering 
and  inspiring  his  fellow- soldiers  to  follow  him  up 
scaling-ladders  and  storm  the  fort.  The  roars, 
barking,  and  confusion  which  resulted  from  this 
attack  may  be  better  imagined  than  described. 

"At  the  moment  when  the  gallant  assailants 
seemed  secure  of  victory  a  retreat  was  sounded, 
and  Moustache  and  his  adherents  were  seen  re- 
ceding from  the  repulse,  rushing  down  the  ladders, 
and  then  staggering  toward  the  lamps  in  a  state 
of  panic  and  dismay. 

" '  How  was  this  grand  military  manoeuvre  so 
well  managed  ?'  probably  asks  the  reader.  I  will 
tell  him.  These  great  performers  had  had  no  food 
since  breakfast,  and  knowing  that  a  fine  hot  sup- 
per, unseen  by  the  audience,  was  placed  for  them 
at  the  top  of  the  fort,  they  naturally  speeded  to- 
ward it,  all  hope  and  exultation ;  when,  just  as 
they  were  about  to  commence  operations,  Costello 
and  his  assistants  commenced  theirs,  and  by  the 
smacking  of  whips  and  other  threats  drove  the 
terrified  combatants  back  in  disgrace.  This  brings 
to  my  recollection  what  old  Astley,  the  circus- 
manager,  once  whimsically  said  to  the  late  Mr. 
Harris :  '  Why  do  my  performers  act  so  much 
better  than  yours?  Because  mine  know  if  they 
don't  indeed  work  like  horses  I  give  them  no 
corn  ;  whereas  if  your  performers  do  or  do  not 


348  A    PSEUDO   FORREST. 

walk  over  the  course,  they  have  their  prog  just  the 
same/ 

"  Wroughton  frequently  told  me  that  he  cleared 
upward  of  seven  thousand  pounds  by  these  four- 
legged  Roscii." 


AUGUSTUS  ADAMS  THE  TRAGEDIAN. 

One  of  the  many  imitators  of  Mr.  Forrest  had 
become  so  imbued  with  his  mode  of  utterance 
and  intonation,  so  perfectly  like  him  in  manner, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  determine  at  an  early  period 
in  their  history  which  was  the  better.  And  to 
those  who  did  not  know  their  antecedents  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  determine  which  was  the 
original.  I  refer  to  Mr.  Augustus  Adams.  He 
began  to  adopt  the  mannerisms  of  Mr.  Forrest  at 
the  outset  of  his  career,  and  fell  into  his  mode  so 
readily  that  any  one  hearing  him  in  ordinary  con- 
versation, without  seeing  him,  could  not  possibly 
have  told  whether  Mr.  Forrest  or  Mr.  Adams  was 
the  speaker. 

Mr.  Adams  was  an  actor  of  much  talent,  and 
had  he  relied  on  his  own  expressive  intonation 
and  quality  of  voice,  instead  of  moulding  himself 
after  the  fashion  of  another,  he  would  have  reached 
a  still  higher  degree  of  excellence  than  that  which, 
in  the  minds  of  many,  made  him  a  rival  of  Mr. 
Forrest.  In  person  he  was  taller  than,  and  quite 
as  commanding  as,  Mr.  Forrest,  and  his  features 
were  quite  as  fine  and  imposing.  But,  unfortu- 


PORK  AND  BEANS  A   LA   FORREST.         349 

nately,  at  an  early  period  he  fell  a  victim  to  intem- 
perance. 

One  night,  after  playing  Hamlet  in  Pittsburg, 
he  walked  into  a  restaurant  kept  by  one  Mr.  Beals, 
a  well-known  wag,  who  was  also  in  the  habit  of 
imitating  Mr.  Forrest,  but  after  the  extravagant 
manner  of  many  who  merely  ridiculed  his  pecu- 
liarities. It  was  his  custom  to  have  a  side-table 
well  supplied  with  a  collation  of  cold  beef,  tongue, 
smoked  codfish,  and  pickles,  with  the  inevitable  tin 
pan  of  cold  baked  pork  and  beans,  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  those  who  dropped  in  to  take  a  drink  be- 
fore retiring  for  the  night.  Mr.  Adams  was  wrap- 
ped in  the  ample  folds  of  his  Spanish  cloak,  and  in 
deep  chest-tones*  said,  "  Mr.  Beals,  I  am  rather 
tired  and  hungry,  and  feel  like  having  a  taste  of 
your  pork  and  beans  before  I  take  my  toddy." 
To  which  Mr.  Beals,  in  still  deeper  Forrestian 
tones,  which  seemed  to  issue  from  the  very  depths 
of  his  capacious  chest,  replied,  "  Mr.  Adams,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  you  have  come  too  late  for  your 
favorite  dish.  The  beans  are  all  gone,  but  here  at 
your  service  is  the  tin  pan"  at  the  same  time  hold- 
ing out  the  empty  vessel  with  a  shake  of  the  head 
and  the  chin  pressed  down  upon  the  breast,  in 
an  attitude  most  provokingly  suggestive  of  the 

*  Churchill  says  of  an  actor — 

"Can  none  remember? — yes,  I  know  all  must — 
When  in  the  Moor  he  ground  his  teeth  to  dust. 

*  *  -x-  -x-  * 

His  voice,  in  one  dull,  deep,  unvaried  sound, 
Seems  to  break  forth  from  caverns  underground ; 
From  hollow  chest  the  low,  sepulchral  note 
Unwilling  heaves  and  struggles  in  his  throat." 
30 


350  KEAN'S  ATTENTION  TO  STAGE-BUSINESS. 

manner  of  the  great  actor.  This  was  received 
with  laughter  and  applause  by  the  spectators,  and 
afforded  a  striking  exhibition  of  the  two  qualities 
of  imitation  and  mimicry. 

It  has  been  said  that  actors  often  forget  them- 
selves so  as  to  lose  entirely  their  own  identity  in 
the  part  they  are  assuming.  I  do  not  believe,  how- 
ever, that  such  abstraction  is  ever  so  complete  as 
to  prevent  at  least  a  mechanical  observance  of  all 
the  material  parts  of  stage-business.  I  remember 
upon  one  occasion,  when  Mr.  Charles  Kean  was  act- 
ing Hamlet  and  It  Horatio,  he  made  a  pause  in  the 
scene,  and,  although  apparently  deeply  absorbed, 
said  in  a  stage-whisper,  "  Good  heavens !  what 
noise  is  that  ?"  I  replied  in  an  undertone,  "  It  is 
only  the  ticking  of  the  greenroom  clock." — "  Oh 
dear !  what  a  nuisance !"  he  whispered,  and  pro- 
ceeded with  his  part,  the  audience  not  seeming 
to  have  noticed  the  interruption  or  heard  the  side- 
speeches.  After  some  time,  in  the  same  scene,  he 
again  paused  and  said  in  an  irritable  undertone, 
"  Can't  they  stop  that  clock  ?"  All  this  was  done 
without  any  apparent  interference  with  his  feelings 
or  expression. 

In  my  own  experience,  while  delivering  the  most 
absorbing  soliloquies,  I  have  been  compelled  to 
improvise  "  stage-business  "  in  order  to  walk  to  a 
place  from  which  I  could  be  heard  by  people  who 
were  talking  behind  the  scenes  and  hiss  out  be- 
tween my  teeth,  "  Stop  that  noise  !"  And  yet  I 
have  never  in  any  such  case  been  conscious  of  the 
slightest  interference  with  the  state  of  my  mind 


A    REHEARSAL   OF  "JULIUS   CsESAR."       351 

in  relation  to  the  part  I  was  playing,  or  disturb- 
ance of  the  drift  of  my  voice  in  the  utterance  of 
the  author's  language. 


MR.   MACREADY  AT  REHEARSAL. 

Mr.  Macready  has  been  known  to  keep  up  what 
might  be  called  a  running  accompaniment  of  whis- 
pered directions  to  the  subordinates  on  the  scene 
and  denunciations  against  offending  parties  all 
through  busy  situations  In  the  action  of  the  play 
requiring  on  his  own  part  the  utmost  self-forget- 
fulness  and  intense  tragic  feeling.  His  peculiar 
manner  of  interlarding  his  speeches  with  muttered 
interjections  and  other  expressions  quite  foreign 
to  the  language  of  the  part  was  amusingly  illus- 
trated under  the  following  circumstances : 

One  day,  at  the  rehearsal  of  a  new  play  in  which 
he  had  to  deliver  a  long  harangue  to  an  excited 
populace,  who  were  to  respond  to  his  addresses 
with  approving  shouts  and  occasional  replies,  Mr. 
Macready  came  near  convulsing  the  whole  com- 
pany with  laughter,  in  spite  of  their  respect  for 
the  manager  and  the  deference  they  usually  paid 
to  his  authoritative  manner.  The  play  was  Philip 
Van  Artevelde,  for  which,  however,  I  shall  here 
substitute,  as  more  familiar,  that  of  Julius  Ccesar. 
The  scene  presents  a  crowd  of  citizens  grouped 
around  a  platform  on  which  the  speaker  stands. 
Those  to  whom  he  more  particularly  directs  his 
remarks  are  on  the  orator's  right  hand.  Conspic- 
uous among  these  is  one  who  has  the  most  to 


352  A     VICTIM   TO   HAY  FEVER. 

say,  and  on  this  occasion  he  was  represented  by  a 
new  member  of  the  company,  who  was  totally  un- 
accustomed to  the  tragedian's  manner  of  conduct- 
ing rehearsals.  He  was,  moreover,  of  a  nervous 
temperament,  and  in  the  habit  when  excited  of  mak- 
ing a  gesture  very  suggestive,  to  speak  plainly, 
of  wiping  his  nose  in  a  kind  of  school-boy  fashion, 
accompanied  with  a  snuffle.  An  extraordinary 
effort  to  bring  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  a  stage- 
ful  of  minor  actors  and  supernumeraries  had  made 
Mr.  Macready  even  more  impatient  than  usual, 
and  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  he  had  fallen 
into  a  way  of  giving  his  stage-directions  and  ex- 
planations in  a  tone  of  voice  pitched  in  much  the 
same  key  as  that  in  which  he  delivered  the  lan- 
guage of  the  character. 

The  extract  is  from  Act  Third,  Scene  Second, 
of  the  tragedy,  and  commences  with  Mark  An- 
tony's reference  to  Qesar's  will  : 

MARK  ANTONY. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 
I  found  it  in  his  closet;  'tis  his  will : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament — 
Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read — 
And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills 
Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy 
Unto  their  issue. 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 

We'll  hear  the  will ;  read  it,  Mark  Antony. 
The  will !  the  will !  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 


INTERPOLATED   STAGE-DIRECTIONS.        353 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[No,  sir,  no,  sir,  that  won't  do !  You  must  speak  louder, 
sir ;  Roman  citizens  were  very  imperative  persons  when  they 
were  getting  the  upper  hand  in  public  affairs.] 

Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not  read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you ; 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad  : 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For  if  you  should,  oh  what  would  come  of  it? 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 

Read  the  will ;  we  will  hear  it,  Antony : 
You  shall  read  us  the  will,  Caesar's  will. 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[No,  sir,  no,  you  have  not  got  it  yet,  sir.  You  were  as  much 
too  loud  in  your  last  lines  as  you  were  too  low  in  the  first  speech. 
There  is  a  happy  medium,  sir,  between  extremes,  sir.  Try  to 
strike  it,  sir;  and  don't  wipe  your  nose,  for  Heaven's  sake  !] 

Will  you  be  patient?  will  you  stay  a  while? 

I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 

I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 

Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar :  I  do  fear  it. 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 
They  were  traitors :  honorable  men  ! 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[No,  no,  no — no,  sir !  They  could  not  be  traitors  and  hon- 
orable men  too.  You  must  sneer  at  "honorable  men,"  sir, 
and  make  it  appear  they  were  not  "honorable  men."] 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 

They  were  traitors  !  not  honorable  men  ! 
30*  X 


354        CONDUCT  UNBECOMING  AN  ACTOR. 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[Sir  !  sir  !  you  misunderstand  me  !  And,  good  Heavens  ! 
there  you  are  wiping  your  nose  again !] 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 

[I  am  not  wiping  my  nose,  Mr.  Macready;  that  is,  I  am 
not  aware  that  I  am  wiping  my  nose.  You  make  me  so  ner- 
vous, sir,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  doing.] 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[Well,  don't  do  it,  sir — don't  do  it  again.  Where  is  the 
other  citizen? — Oh  yes.  Speak,  sir.] 

CITIZEN. 
The  will !  the  testament ! 

ROMAN  CITIZEN. 

(Now  indignantly  excited,  which  makes  him  wipe  his  nose 
more  furiously  than  ever,  and  in  a  somewhat  defiant  tone  of  voice.  ~) 

They  were  villains,  murderers  :  the  will !  read  the  will ! 

MARK  ANTONY. 

[There,  sir !  there,  sir !  that  will  do,  sir. — Prompter,  cast 
another  person  for  this  Roman  Citizen — one  who  has  not  the 
beastly  habit  of  snuffling  and  rubbing  his  nose — and  forfeit 
the  gentleman  who  is  rehearsing  the  part  a  night's  salary  for 
conduct  unbecoming  an  actor.] 

Here  Mr.  Macready  came  down  from  the  stand, 
bowed  to  the  company,  and  disappeared  into  his 
dressing-room,  while  the  stage-manager  dismissed 
the  actors  and  announced  the  rehearsal  of  the 
tragedy  for  the  following  morning. 

A   QUAINT  ACTOR  AND   AN   OLD   CUSTOM. 
We  are  told  of  a  performer  of  the  last  century 
named  \Vignell  who  was  so  doubly  refined  that  he 


AN  IMPROMPTU  PROLOGUE.  355 

could  not  deliver  an  ordinary  message  without 
trying  to  make  blank  verse  of  it.  "Wignell," 
said  Garrick,  "  why  can't  you  say,  *  Mr.  Strickland, 
your  coach  is  ready,'  as  an  ordinary  man  would 
say  it,  and  'not  with  the  declamatory  pomp  of  Mr. 
Quin  or  Mr.  Booth  when  playing  tyrants?" — 
"  Sir,"  said  poor  Wignell,  "  I  thought  in  that  pas- 
sage I  had  kept  down  the  sentiment."  That  he 
never 'could  do;  his  Doctor  in  Macbeth  was  so 
wonderfully  solemn  that  his  audience  was  always 
in  fits  of  laughter  at  it. 

The  old  fashion  of  speaking  a  prologue  had 
been  set  aside.  One  evening  at  the  Covent  Gar- 
den Theatre  the  curtain  rose  for  a  performance 
of  the  tragedy  of  Cato,  and  the  play  began  without 
the  usual  poetic  preface.  The  audience,  jealous 
of  their  rights,  set  up  a  shout  of  "  Prologue !  pro- 
logue !"  That  eccentric  actor,  Wignell,  was  then 
on  the  stage  as  Portius,  and  in  his  fantastically 
pompous  way  had  pronounced  the  opening  pas- 
sage of  his  part — 

The  dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  lowers, 
And  heavily,  with  clouds,  brings  on  the  day — 

when  he  was  interrupted  by  renewed  vociferations 
for  the  prologue.  Wignell  would  neither  depart 
from  his  character  nor  leave  the  audience  without 
satisfactory  explanation,  and  accordingly,  after  the 
word  "day,"  without  changing  features  or  tone, 
he  solemnly  went  on  with  this  interpolation  : 

[Ladies  and  gentlemen,  there  has  not  been 
For  years  a  prologue  spoken  to  this  play] — 


356        FORREST  AND   HIS  PIGMY  GUARDS. 

The  great,  the  important  day,  big  with  the  fate 
Of  Cato  and  of  Rome. 


STORIES   OF  SUPERNUMERARIES. 

About  1835  I  was  a  member  of  the  company  at 
the  Tremont  Theatre,  Boston,  performing  second- 
ary characters  in  tragedy  and  comedy.  There 
were  also  two  gentlemen  there,  Messrs.  Adams 
and  Benson,  employed  in  what  was  termed  the 
"utility"  line  of  business,  and  who  went  on  as 
guards,  citizens,  or  senators.  Both  were  some- 
what under  middle  stature — in  fact,  they  were  very 
small  men.  They  were  considered  regular  actors, 
and  required  to  attend  rehearsals,  subject  to  the 
prompter's  call,  but  were  usually  detailed  for  the 
delivery  of  messages,  to  stand  as  sentries,  or  to 
arrest  and  carry  off  persons  obnoxious  to  dramatic 
authority.  Mr.  Forrest  in  many  of  his  characters, 
as  my  readers  will  remember,  was  subjected  to 
tyrannical  treatment  and  delivered  over  to  officers 
and  guards,  and  consequently  often  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Messrs.  Adams  and  Benson.  One  morn- 
ing, while  rehearsing  the  part  of  Damon  in  the 
play  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  when  Dionysius  the 
tyrant  calls  upon  his  guards  to  seize  the  noble 
Roman  who  is  about  to  strike  at  his  life,  as  Mr. 
Forrest  rushed  furiously  toward  the  tyrant  with 
uplifted  dagger,  he  was  ruthlessly  seized  by  the 
two  myrmidons  of  the  law,  the  two  gentlemen  to 
whom  I  have  referred,  whose  hands  were  firmly 
fixed  upon  his  wrists  and  shoulders,  holding  him 
with  a  determined  grasp.  For  a  moment  he  stood 


OVER-OFFICIOUS  SUPERNUMERARIES.       357 

gazing  deliberately  and  alternately  upon  the  di- 
minutive obstructors  of  just  vengeance,  and  then, 
releasing  himself,  he  called  to  the  manager,  Mr. 
Barry,  and  said  in  measured  tones  of  solemn  re- 
monstrance, "  Sir,  this  thing  is  becoming  supreme- 
ly ridiculous,  and  I  must  protest  against  a  repeti- 
tion of  such  incongruity.  No  sooner  am  I  ordered 
into  durance  vile  than  upon  all  occasions  these 
two  under-sized  gentlemen — I  beg  their  pardon — 
rush  forth  and  seize  me.  I  say  again,  I  must  pro- 
test against  their  performance  of  duties  for  which 
their  bodily  proportions  render  them  totally  unfit, 
turning  what  should  be  a  tragic  effect  into  a  mere 
farce."  The  effect  of  this  harangue,  delivered  in 
Mr.  Forrest's  well-known  voice  and  manner,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  describe.  For  a  long  time 
these  gentlemen  were  regarded  as  the  only  mem- 
bers of  the  profession  who  had  dared  to  "beard 
the  lion  in  his  den." 

Subordinate  performers,  however,  may  some- 
times possess  more  physical  power  than  is  desi- 
rable. 

Mr.  Augustus  Adams,  when  performing  Lear, 
was  once  subjected  to  very  rough  treatment  at 
the  hands  of  what  are  termed  "  supernumeraries." 
He  had  instructed  them  to  approach  at  a  certain 
part  of  his  speech  and  raise  him  gently  from  his 
knees,  when  he  would  throw  himself  into  their 
arms,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  they  were  to 
bear  him  away.  But  in  the  performance  of  the 
play,  when  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  before  he 
had  more  than  merely  commenced  the  utterance 


358  A    CAPTIVE  KING   LEAR. 

of  the  curse,  his  over -zealous  attendants  ap- 
proached and  raised  him  up.  The  exasperated 
father  in  an  undertone  exclaimed,  "  Go  away !  let 
me  alone !"  but,  misunderstanding  his  order,  and 
only  realizing  that  something  was  wrong,  they 
lifted  him  off  his  feet  and  in  spite  of  his  frantic 
exclamations,  struggling  and  kicking,  they  bore 
him  from  the  stage.  All  this  time  the  audience 
were  applauding — some  of  them  doubtless  appre- 
ciating the  blunder,  but  others  considering  the 
whole  matter  a  new  and  effective  point  of  stage- 
business,  while,  in  all  probability,  the  attendants 
received  in  full  force  the  curse  which  was  to  have 
been  pronounced  upon  his  daughter  by  the  infuri- 
ated king. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 
LONDON    EXPERIENCES. 

TN  1856,  my  health  being  very  much  impaired, 
-*-  I  determined  to  take  a  trip  to  Europe,  think- 
ing it  possible  that  while  in  England  I  might  be 
able  to  fulfil  a  long-cherished  desire  to  appear 
upon  the  London  boards.  In  company  with  my 
eldest  daughter  I  took  passage  on  a  Cunard 
steamer  from  Boston,  and,  after  experiencing  the 
usual  pleasures  and  discomforts  incident  to  a  sea- 
voyage,  we  arrived  in  Liverpool.  From  thence 
we  started  upon  a  tour  planned  from  the  friend- 
ly suggestions  of  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  and  the 
larte  Mr.  George  S.  Hillard  of  Boston,  whose 
experience  and  good  judgment  indicated  such 
routes  and  points  of  interest  as  rendered  our 
travel  in  the  British  islands  the  perfection  of 
sight-seeing. 

The  antique  walled  city  of  Chester  and  "grand 
old  York,"  with  its  time-honored  ruins  and  his- 
toric edifices,  were  among  the  first  places  we  vis- 
ited ;  we  next  saw  the  land  of  Scott  and  Burns, 
the  Trossachs,  Loch  Katrine,  and  watery  Lom- 
ond, Edinburgh,  and  Stirling  Castle,  and  then 
Dublin  and  Donnybrook  Fair,  an  extraordinary 
scene  of  Irish  fun  ;  which,  by  the  by,  we  were  told, 

359 


360  AN  ENGAGEMENT  IN  LONDON. 

in  consequence  of  the  omission  of  some  formality 
which  should  have  preceded  its  opening,  would  be 
held  no  more.  After  this  we  went  to  Abbots- 
ford,  saw  Melrose  by  moonlight,  and  finally  ar- 
rived at  the  mighty  metropolis  and  entered  upon 
a  course  of  London  sight-seeing,  to  which  I  was 
able  to  devote  my  entire  time,  for,  by  the  advice 
of  Mr.  Hillard,  I  had  brought  no  letters  of  intro- 
duction to  social  or  literary  celebrities.  A  previ- 
ous acquaintance  in  my  own  country  with  Messrs. 
Buckstone  and  Chippendale — the  former  the  pro- 
prietor, and  the  latter  the  stage-manager,  of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre — rendered  the  consummation 
of  my  professional  plans  comparatively  easy,  and 
an  application  for  an  "  opening  "  was  readily  grant- 
ed by  Mr.  Buckstone,  who  immediately  appointed 
a  date  and  announced  my  early  appearance  "  from 
the  theatres  of  the  United  States/'  under  an  en- 
gagement for  a  limited  number  of  nights.  The 
company  being  organized  especially  for  the  pro- 
duction of  comedy,  it  was  determined  that  I 
should  appear  as  Young  Mirabel  in  Farquhar's 
play  entitled  The  Inconstant;  or,  Wine  Works 
Wonders,  which  I  had  arranged  for  modern  rep- 
resentation. 

The  success  attending  my  first  performance  was 
such  as  to  authorize  the  management  to  announce 
the  repetition  of  the  comedy  until  further  notice. 
After  holding  possession  of  the  stage  for  a  month, 
it  was  withdrawn  in  order  to  introduce  Wild  Oats, 
in  which  I  appeared  as  Rover  and  Mr.  Buckstone 
as  Sim. 


A    COMPLIMENTARY  INTRODUCTION.        361 

It  will  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  record  an 
act  of  courtesy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Chippendale, 
who  before  the  rehearsal  of  The  Inconstant,  ad- 
dressing the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  com- 
pany, said:  "In  the  arrangement  of  the  business 
of  the  old  comedies  in  which  Mr.  Murdoch  is  to 
appear  I  shall  not  exercise  my  authority  in  stage- 
supervision,  but  request  you  to  observe  his  direc- 
tions ;"  adding,  "  These  old  plays  have  been  so  long 
on  the  shelf  that  their  business,  once  quite  familiar 
to  the  profession,  has  been  in  a  great  degree  for- 
gotten ;  and,  having  examined  the  prompt-books 
Mr.  Murdoch  has  furnished,  I  find  them  to  be  so 
well  marked  that  Mr.  Buckstone  and  I  have  con- 
cluded that  it  is  merely  just  that  our  American 
visitor  should  himself  direct  the  situations  of  the 
scenes  in  which  he  is  particularly  interested."  In 
consequence  of  this  announcement,  and  the  polite 
acquiescence  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  con- 
cerned, my  rehearsals  at  the  Haymarket  were 
productive  of  more  real  satisfaction  than  I  had 
ever  before  enjoyed  in  the  discharge  of  the  re- 
sponsible duties  of  a  stage-director.  My  expe- 
rience under  the  management  of  Mr.  DeCamp 
— to  which  I  have  heretofore  had  occasion  to 
refer — had  made  me  acquainted  with  the  stage- 
business  of  Messrs.  Lewis  and  Elliston,  who  had 
acquired  celebrity  in  many  characters  under  the 
instruction  of  the  authors  who  had  originated 
them.  Mr.  DeCamp  was  quite  familiar  with  the 
manner  of  these  distinguished  actors,  and  had  fol- 
lowed their  example  in  several  parts  of  which  he 

31 


362         THE   REHEARSAL    OF  "WILD    OATS." 

was  fond,  while  I  was  performing  subordinate  cha- 
racters ;  and  thus  under  his  instruction  I  learned 
and  carefully  treasured  up  a  knowledge  of  prac- 
tical details  which  was  of  much  value,  enabling 
me  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  bygone  celebrities 
without  subjecting  myself  to  the  charge  of  imita- 
tion. The  critics  affirmed  that  while  I  looked  and 
moved  like  many  of  their  old  favorites,  my  voice 
and  speech  were  entirely  unlike  theirs. 

But,  however  auspicious  the  opening  of  my 
London  career  seemed  to  be,  an  unpleasant  inci- 
dent that  occurred  soon  after  proved  to  me  the 
truth  of  the  old  saying  that  "  He  that  plucks  the 
rose  must  feel  the  thorn." 

At  the  first  rehearsal  of  Wild  Oats\  found  that 
Mr.  Buckstone  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  hav- 
ing Sim  come  on  in  what  is  termed  the  "play- 
scene."  But  when  I  informed  him  that  I  had  ar- 
ranged some  "  business  "  in  which  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to  have  Sim  take  a  part,  he  promised 
to  comply  with  my  wishes.  In  order  to  give  a 
correct  view  of  the  situation  I  will  briefly  state 
that  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  act  Lamp  the  man- 
ager appears  on  the  scene,  with  the  servants 
dressed  as  the  characters  of  the  "  play  "  in  which 
Rover  has  induced  Lady  Amaranth  to  take  a  part 
for  her  amusement  and  that  of  her  household. 
Sir  George  Thunder,  annoyed  at  the  conduct  of 
his  niece  in  introducing  such  abominations  as  the- 
atricals into  his  house,  breaks  up  the  intended  re- 
hearsal with  opprobrious  epithets,  using  his  cane 
quite  freely  on  the  offending  servants.  In  this 


A   FAILURE  IN  THE  "BUSINESS."  363 

hubbub  I  had  arranged  that  Sim  should  appear, 
dressed  grotesquely  in  a  mongrel  suit  of  Roman 
armor,  and  that  Sir  George  should  meet  and  be- 
labor him  with  his  cane,  while  he  should  defend 
himself  with  a  kitchen-spit,  until  he  was  knocked 
down  and  beaten  off  after  the  fashion  of  Falstaff 
in  the  robbery-scene.  At  this  juncture  Rover, 
who  is  laughing  and  applauding  the  performance, 
comes  in  the  way  of  Sir  George,  who  inadvert- 
ently gives  him  a  blow  as  he  is  driving  Sim  off 
the  stage. 

This  was  the  introduction  Mr.  Buckstone  had 
approved,  and  accordingly  rehearsed.  But  the 
matter  was  entirely  new  to  him,  and,  as  he  was 
very  deaf,  at  night  when  the  boy  "  called  for  the 
scene "  in  the  greenroom,  he  did  not  hear  him, 
and  consequently  failed  to  make  his  appearance 
at  the  critical  moment.  The  result  was  that  while 
Sir  George  was  beating  the  servants,  and  I  was 
trying  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  prompter  to 
Mr.  Buckstone's  absence,  in  the  flurry  of  the 
moment  Mr.  Chippendale,  who  personated.  Sir 
George,  struck  at  me  as  he  left  the  stage  in  such 
an  undemonstrative  manner  that  I  was  quite  un- 
conscious of.  having  received  the  blow ;  so  that 
when,  in  the  order  of  the  scene,  I  came  to  deliver 
my  exit  speech,  in  which  I  expressed  a  determina- 
tion to  chastise  Sir  George,  and  which  should  be 
uttered  in  great  indignation,  I  was  unable  to  give 
it  in  that  burst  of  passion  which  takes  the  hero 
off  with  eclat  and  usually  "brings  down  the 
house." 


364  AN   UNCALLED-FOR    CRITICISM. 

The  next  day  the  London  Times — which  had 
bestowed  the  highest  praises  on  my  manner  of 
resenting  the  insult  in  the  bravo-scene  of  The 
Inconstant — took  me  to  task  for  tamely  submit- 
ting to  an  affront  in  Wild  Oats,  intimating  that 
it  evinced  an  apparent  lack  of  sensibility  not  con- 
sistent with  the  character  of  a  generous  young 
Englishman  like  Rover ;  but  the  other  papers,  in 
a  proper  spirit,  did  not  notice  what  must  have 
appeared  a  mere  accident,  and  therefore  to  be 
overlooked. 

Mr.  Oxenford,  the  critic  of  The  Times,  who  was 
an  experienced  observer  of  dramatic  effects,  cer- 
tainly knew  that  something  had  occurred  to  mar 
the  proper  climax  bf  the  scene,  and  should  have 
omitted  any  remark  which  could  have  been  con- 
strued to  be  a  reflection  on  the  personal  sensi- 
bility of  a  performer,  although  merely  intended 
as  a  rebuke  for  professional  inefficiency. 

Mr.  Buckstone  acknowledged  himself  to  blame, 
and  expressed  regret  that  Sim's  negligence  should 
have  caused  his  friend  Rover  to  be  subjected  to 
the  unwarranted  suspicion  of  having  received  an 
affront  which  he  "  put  in  his  pocket." 

The  next  revival,  as  my  performances  were 
styled,  was  of  the  comedy  of  The  Dramatist, 
which  had  not  been  acted  for  a  third  of  a  century. 
Neither  the  actors  nor  the  audience  were  familiar 
with  its  incidents  or  language,  and  therefore  the 
initia^  performance  was  of  the  nature  of  "a  first 
night."  Mr.  Buckstone  cast  himself  for  Ennui — 
a  slow  part,  and,  though  quaint  in  character,  not 


THE  RIVAL    CHINA-SMASHERS.  365 

in  his  peculiar  line.  But  the  comedy  was  a  suc- 
cess, from  the  fact  that  it  exaggerated  the  follies 
and  foibles  of  a  past  generation.  Although  the 
audience  did  not  get  at  the  pith  of  the  matter  as 
readily  as  they  had  at  that  of  the  "  previous  come- 
dies," we  played  The  Dramatist  for  a  week  or 
so,  during  which  time  I  realized  the  true  state  of 
affairs,  which  was  mainly  this :  Mr.  Buckstone  did 
not  like  Ennui,  and  felt  that  he  should  have  acted 
the  part  of  Vapid ;  which,  by  the  by,  I  wondered  he 
had  not  thought  of  studying  before  I  had  proposed 
to  play  it.  But  there  was  a  still  bigger  "  bee  in 
the  bonnet"  of  my  friend  the  manager,  whose 
buzzing  more  seriously  disturbed  his  usual  placid- 
ity. I  had  observed  during  the  run  of  The  Dram- 
atist that  morning  rehearsals  were  in  progress  in 
which  a  large  amount  of  china  and  other  furniture 
was  to  be  demolished,  and  that  Mr.  Buckstone  was 
to  act  the  part  which  was  to  do  the  smashing. 
Now,  as  Vapid  breaks  china  unlimitedly  in  The 
Dramatist,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was  trou- 
ble ahead.  The  new  entertainment  was  written  by 
Mr.  Oxenford,  who  was  urging  its  immediate  pro- 
duction on  account  of  forthcoming  novelties  which 
he  felt  would  interfere  with  its  success.  It  became 
necessary,  therefore,  that  my  demolition  of  crock- 
ery must  cease,  as  the  breakage  in  the  first  part 
of  the  evening's  performance  would  naturally  in- 
terfere with  the'  effect  of  repeated  crashes  on  the 
same  night;  and  in  order  to  prepare  the  public 
for  a  withdrawal  of  The  Dramatist,  and  at  the 
same  time  not  to  damage  my  attraction  in  the 

31  * 


366  AN  EASY  "SETTING- DOWN." 

character  in  which  I  was  next  to  appear,  it  was 
deemed  expedient  to  lay  the  blame  upon  the  old 
comedy,  and  not  upon  the  new  performer. 

The  following  article,  which  appeared  in  the 
London  Punch,  will  give  the  reader  a  hint  con- 
cerning the  many  methods  by  which  the  public 
are  entertained,  while  at  the  same  time  desirable 
publicity  is  given  without  an  ordinary  advertise- 
ment. Upon  an  expression  of  my  doubts  as  to 
the  animus  of  the  article,  Mr.  Buckstone  assured 
me  that  it  was  written  in  the  kindest  spirit  possi- 
ble, and  meant  to  be  complimentary,  and  that  it 
was  in  every  way  calculated  to  advance  both  my 
interest  and  his  own.  I  afterward  heard  that  it 
had  been  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray,  and,  as  I  had 
through  the  influence  of  that  gentleman  received 
the  compliment  of  an  election  to  an  honorary 
membership  in  the  old  Garrick  Club,  I  felt  that  it 
was  intended  only  to  be  funny: 

PARNASSUS  POLICE-OFFICE.* 

Yesterday  an  individual  of  very  gentlemanly  exterior,  of 
the  name  of  Murdoch,  was  brought  before  the  worthy  mag- 
istrate of  this  office,  charged  with  the  reproduction,  from  a 
very  musty  shelf,  of  one  Vapid,  known  some  three-quarters 
of  a  century  ago  as  The  Dramatist,  to  the  great  annoyance,  if 
not  worse,  of  a  crowd  of  persons  in  the  Haymarket.  Mr. 
Baldwin  Buckstone  was  also  charged  as  an  accomplice. 

Mr.  Brown  proved  the  fact  of  the  reproduction.  He  had 
seen  the  Vapid  as  exposed  at  the  Haymarltet  Theatre.  It  was 
a  very  painful  exhibition.  Mrs.  Brown,  his  wife,  a  woman  of 
a  very  lively  disposition,  accompanied  him,  and  (here  the  wit- 
ness appeared  greatly  distressed)  had  never  smiled  since. 
*  London  Punch,  Nov.  8,  1856. 


EVIDENCE  FOR    THE  PROSECUTION.        367 

Mr.  Jones  had,  unfortunately  for  himself,  been  present  at 
the  exhibition  in  question.  He  said  "unfortunately,"  inas- 
much as  it  had  cost  him  a  situation  of  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

The  worthy  magistrate  desired  the  witness  to  explain 
himself. 

Mr.  Jones  had  no  objection.  The  fact  was,  he  had  held 
the  situation  of  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house  of  very  severe 
principles  in  the  City.  On  leaving  The  Dramatist  he  felt  as 
though  he  had  been  drugged — "hocussed,"  he  believed  was 
the  word.  He  went  to  bed,  and  ought,  as  was  his  custom,  to 
have  risen  at  seven,  but  was  so  much  overpowered  by  what 
he  had  swallowed  at  the  Haymarket  that  it  took  his  wife,  his 
mother-in-law,  the  housemaid,  and  the  charwoman,  all  to- 
gether, to  wake  him.  He  did  not  reach  the  city  until  an 
hour  after  time,  and  the  partners  of  the  firm  (they  were  stren- 
uous hearers  of  Mr.  Spurgeon),  on  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  cause  of  his  somnolency,  resolutely  showed  him  to  the 
door;  in  fact,  discharged  him.  He  still  felt  very  weak  in- 
deed from  what  he  had  taken  at  the  Haymarket. 

Mr.  Robinson  deposed  that  he  had  seen  Vapid,  and  that  he 
thought  the  exhibition  a  very  daring  attempt  on  the  prover- 
bial good-nature  of  a  British  audience.  In  a  sanitary  point 
of  view  he  believed  that  such  an  exposure  was  attended  with 
the  worst  results,  inasmuch  as  it  tended  to  create  depres- 
sion of  the  spirits,  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  extreme  mel- 
ancholy. 

Mr.  Murdoch,  as  having  reproduced  the  object  in  question, 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  ask  the  witness  if  he  could  state  any 
one  case  in  which  Vapid  had  so  operated. 

Mr.  Robinson :  Certainly.  A  gentlewoman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, the  lady  of  a  distinguished  sheriff's  officer  of  the  He- 
brew persuasion,  was  present  on  the  first  exhibition  of  The 
Dramatist,  and  has  been  in  a  state  of  hysteria  ever  since: 
even  her  husband  couldn't  arrest  it. 

The  worthy  magistrate  remarked  that  the  case  wore  a  very 
ugly  aspect,  and,  as  it  then  appeared  to  him,  the  accused  par- 
ties were  liable  to  be  punished  under  the  Police  Act.  How- 
ever, he  would  hear  what  they  had  to  say  for  themselves ;  and, 


368  THE   DEFENDANT  EXAMINED. 

warning  them  that  what  they  said  would  be  taken  down  and 
used  against  them,  desired  Murdoch  to  enter  upon  his  de- 
fence. His  Worship  further  observed  that  Murdoch,  as  an 
American,  might,  if  he  chose,  be  examined  through  a  sworn 
interpreter. 

Mr.  Murdoch,  with  a  very  slight  Transatlantic  accent  and 
with  a  light-comedy  bow,  worth  in  itself  ten  pounds  a  week, 
said  he  trusted  that  a  pretty  smart  study  of  the  snow-white 
Swan  of  Avon  had,  he  rather  guessed,  made  him,  as  far  as 
words  went,  as  thorough  a  Britisher  as  His  Worship.  He 
thought  that  in  reproducing  Vapid  he  was  proving  himself  a 
public  benefactor.  He  considered  himself  the  victim  of  a 
base  conspiracy. 

"  Hear  !  hear  !"  from  Mr.  Buckstone,  who  was  sharply  re- 
minded by  the  officer  of  the  court'  that  he  was  not  then  before 
the  footlights. 

Mr.  Murdoch  continued.  He  believed  that  his  Vapid  was 
a  most  lively,  most  soul-stirring  person.  He  had  played 
Vapid  at  New  York  for  his  benefit,  when  The  Dramatist  was 
expressly  bespoken  by  the  united  body  of  undertakers,  who, 
as  a  further  mark  of  respect,  posted  two  mutes  at  the  doors 
of  gallery,  pit,  and  boxes. 

Mr.  Buckstone  observed  that  undertakers  were  generally  the 
best  judges  of  private  boxes.  {.Roars  of  laughter.) 

Mr.  Murdoch  said  he  could  if  he  liked,  but  wouldn't  con- 
descend to  the  act,  produce  several  witnesses  who  would  tes- 
tify to  the  overpowering  hilarity  of  his  Vapid.  One,  how- 
ever, he  might  name.  He  alluded  then  to  the  respected 
matron  who  sold  apples,  oranges,  a  bill  of  the  play,  etc.  in 
the  pit  of  the  Haymarket.  She  was  quite  ready  to  depose 
that  in  his  great  scene — His  Worship  would,  of  course,  in- 
stinctively know  that  he  alluded  to  the  china-closet  scene — 
his  Vapid  had  so  far  warmed  the  woman's  apple-basket  that 
more  than  two  ginger-beer  bottles  went  off  in  spontaneous 
explosion.  He  thought  this  the  purest,  the  highest,  and  the 
most  flattering  criticism,  because  most  involuntary  and  uncon- 
scious on  the  part  of  the  ginger-beer  aforesaid. 

The  magistrate  said  he  would  certainly  reserve  the  point 


AN  ACCOMPLICE  AS  A    WITNESS.  369 

of  the  ginger-beer  in  favor  of  the  accused.  His  Worship 
then  desired  to  know  what  Mr.  Buckstone  had  to  say  in  his 
defence.  Vapid  had  been  exhibited  on  his  premises,  and  he 
was  clearly  a  party  to  the  exposure. 

Mr.  Buckstone  (amidst  shouts  of  laughter,  in*  which  His 
Worship  did  not  disdain  to  join)  said  the  fact  was  he  was 
one  of  the  easiest  of  managers.  He  wasn't  a  tragedy-man- 
ager and  didn't  fine  his  cat  for  swearing.  No;  and  he  didn't 
walk  the  stage  at  rehearsals,  and  cry  "  Silence  !"  when  his  own 
boots  creaked.  No ;  and  when  he  played  his  great  dagger — 
he  meant  his  great  apple — scene  as  Sim  in  the  Wild  Oats,  he 
didn't  make  his  actors  and  actresses  wear  list  slippers  that 
they  mightn't  spoil  his  effects. 

The  magistrate  said  Mr.  Buckstone  was  wandering  from 
the  point. 

Mr.  Buckstone  said  he  knew  it:  "To  walk  was  human,  to 
wander  was  divine."  He  could  only  say  that  he  gloried  in 
his  art.  He  had  refused  a  baronetcy  and  a  visionary  income, 
because  hampered  with  the  condition  of  his  quitting  the  stage. 
Why  should  he  leave  the  stage  ?  If  he'd  been  made  a  baronet 
without  conditions,  he'd  have  had  "Bart."  printed  in  red  in 
the  playbills,  with  a  bloody  JB©"  pointing  to  the  dignity  of — 

His  Worship  said  he  must  really  call  Mr.  Buckstone  to  his 
defence. 

Mr.  Buckstone :  Certainly — always  attend  to  the  call.  Well, 
then,  Murdoch  said  he  knew  there  was  still  life  in  Vapid ;  but 
for  his  (Buckstone's)  part,  he  said,  and  still  thought,  there  was 
more  life  in  a  blue-bottle  fly  that  was  drowned  in  the  small 
beer  of  George  the  Third.  The  fact  was,  as  he'd  said,  he 
was  an  easy  manager;  and  being  at  the  time  occupied  with  a 
new  Spanish  ballet — 

His  Worship  (with  evident  interest}  :  A  new  Spanish  ballet  ? 

Mr.  Buckstone :  Si,  sefior — a  new  Hispaniolian  ballet.  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  write  Your  Worship  an  order  for  the 
first  night. 

His  Worship  (with  great  dignity) :  Justice  is  blind,  Mr. 
Buckstone,  and  cannot  see  a  ballet. 

Mr.  Buckstone  was  about  to  observe,  when — 

Y 


370  WILLIAM  B.     WOOD'S  ADVICE. 

\ 

The  worthy  magistrate  said  he  had  fully  considered  the 
case;  the  public  must  be  protected  from  such  exhibitions  as 
The  Dramatist,  and  he  should  therefore  sentence  both  the 
prisoners  to  three  months'  hard  labor  (with  nobody  to  see 
them)  in  Cumberland's,  Wheel  of  Fortune. 

The  parties,  through  Mr.  Nebuchadnezzar  of  the  respected 
firm  of  Nebuchadnezzar  &  Grass,  gave  notice  of  appeal. 

GOOD  ADVICE  FROM  A  VETERAN  ACTOR. 

A  youth  whose  tastes  and  habits  were  yet  un- 
formed, and  surrounded  by  influences  which  were 
looked  upon  by  a  part  of  the  community  at  least 
as  pernicious,  I  found  in  Mr.  Wood  a  judicious 
counsellor  and  an  exemplary  guide,  while  as  a 
good  professional  model  in  the  details  of  stage- 
action  I  found  him  of  great  value.  He  was  noted 
for  his  correct  deportment  in  the  daily  business  of 
the  theatre,  and  for  his  knowledge  of  the  situa- 
tions and  effects  of  all  the  scenes  in  the  old 
dramas,  where  the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  as  well 
as  the  fops  and  flirts,  of  the  "  good  society  "  of  the 
past  strutted  their  brief  hour  upon  the  stage.  It 
can  hardly  be  said  that  he  was  either  elegant  or 
graceful,  and  yet  his  carriage  displayed  the  un- 
mistakable traits  of  the  gentleman.  He  was  al- 
ways dignified  and  courteous,  and  his  language 
correct  and  unaffected.  I  entertain  a  grateful 
recollection  of  his  friendly  advice,  always  freely 
imparted.  He  kindly  endeavored  to  impress  upon 
me  the  importance  of  avoiding  corrupting  asso- 
ciations and  the  many  temptations  that  beset  the 
path  of  the  young  actor,  especially  after  the  per- 
formances of  the  theatre  are  over ;  and  he  warned 


AN  APT  QUOTATION  FROM  SHAKESPEARE.   371 

me  against  the  moral  damage  to  be  apprehended 
from  companionship  with  the  frequenters  of  the 
saloons  and  restaurants  which  surround  the  the- 
atres, and  the  danger  of  becoming  stale  in  the 
public  gaze  by  a  too  frequent  and  indiscriminate 
appearance  in  familiar  haunts  in  the  leisure  hours 
of  the  day. 

I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  Mr.  Wood's  im- 
pressive manner  of  pointing  his  precepts  by  apt 
quotations,  and  especially  of  his  having  on  one 
occasion  repeated  the  address  of  King  Henry  the 
Fourth  to  his  son:* 

Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been, 

So  common-hackneyed  in  the  eyes  of  men, 

So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company, 

Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown, 

Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession 

And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 

A  fellow  of  no  mark  nor  likelihood. 

By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir 

But,  like  a  comet,  I  was  wondered  at ; 

That  men  would  tell  their  children,  "This  is  he;" 

Others  would  say,  "Where?     Which  is  Bolingbroke ?" 

***#** 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh  and  new ; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen  but  wondered  at ;  and  so  my  state, 
Seldom  but  sumptuous,  showed  like  a  feast, 
And  won  by  rareness  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters  and  rasji  bavin  wits, 

****** 
Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 
Enfeoffed  himself  to  popularity;. 

*  First  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth,  Act  III. 


372    MR.    WOOD'S  FONDNESS  FOR  FLOWERS. 

That,  being  daily  swallowed  by  men's  eyes, 

They  surfeited  with  honey,  and  began 

To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 

More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 

So,  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen, 

He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 

Heard,  not  regarded. 

A  DIFFICULTY  SOLVED. 

Mr.  Wood  was  very  fond  of  cultivating  flowers, 
and  especially  roses  in  all  their  varieties,  and  he 
was  a  great  admirer  of  the  wealth  of  color  dis- 
played by  the  dahlia,  which  was  at  that  time  a 
novelty  and  its  culture  a  subject  of  much  interest 
among  amateurs.  He  had  a  garden  of  moderate 
dimensions,  and  was  devoted  to  its  care — an  oc- 
cupation which,  in  his  judgment,  was  calculated 
to  promote  the. love  of  the  bright  and  beautiful, 
warm  the  imagination,  and  improve  the  taste  for 
the  study  of  form  and  color  in  Nature  and  Art. 
His  friendly  lessons  were  not  lost,  and  under  their 
influence  my  early  love  for  such  employment  was 
developed  and  encouraged  until  it  became  a  source 
of  enjoyment  which  has  never  failed.  But  thorns 
will  grow  among  the  fairest  flowers,  and,  although 
our  companionship  was  generally  so  pleasant,  its 
harmony  was  not  entirely  free  from  interruption. 

I  very  well  remember  on  one  occasion  Mr.  May- 
wood,  at  that  time  the  directing  manager  of  the 
Chestnut  Street  Theatre, Philadelphia,  cut  the  Gor- 
dian  knot  of  a  rivalry  between  Mr.  Wood  and  my- 
self in  a  very  unexpected  manner.  The  comedy 
of  The  Belle  s  Stratagem  was  in  rehearsal,  and  both 


LUDLOWS  ANECDOTE    OF  COOPER.        373 

Mr.  Wood  and  I,  by  our  articles  of  engagement, 
were  entitled  to  the  character  of  Doricourt.  Our 
respective  claims  were  urged  with  so  much  warmth 
that  the  "cast"  was  not  put  up  in  the  greenroom. 
But  the  preparations  for  the  comedy  went  on,  the 
prompter  reading  the  part  of  Doricourt,  until  at 
last  the  "  posted  bills  "  announced  the  play,  and, 
lo !  there  appeared  a  solution  of  the  vexed  ques- 
tion, reading  thus :  "  First  appearance  of  Mr,  Ab- 
bott from  the  London  theatres,  who  has  been  en- 
gaged expressly  to  sustain  the  character  of  Dori- 
court." 

MUSTARD   AND   MUTTON-CHOPS. 

Mr.  Ludlow,  of  the  old  firm  of  Ludlow  &  Smith, 
managers  in  the  South  and  West  for  nearly  half 
a  century,  told  me  the  following  story  of  Mr. 
Cooper  the  tragedian,  with  whom  he  was  inti- 
mately acquainted. 

"  Cooper,"  said  he,  "  had  played  a  fortnight's 
engagement  with  us  in  New  Orleans ;  we  had 
settled  up  his  account  after  the  morning  rehearsal, 
and  found  the  afternoon  so  far  advanced  as  to 
render  the  possibility  of  our  dining  at  the  hotel 
very  questionable,  and,  as  he  had  some  profes- 
sional matters  still  to  arrange,  he  suggested  that 
we  should  go  to  a  favorite  eating-house  and  get  a 
mutton-chop  and  some  roast  potatoes — a  dinner 
after  the  good  old  English  fashion  and  prepared 
by  an  English  cook.  We  accordingly  bent  our 
steps  to  the  chop-house  indicated,  where  we  found 
everything,  as  he  had  promised,  very  comfortable, 

32 


374  A    DISGUSTED    JOHNNY  BULL. 

with  an  agreeable  odor  of  hot  chops  pervading 
the  saloon,  and  tidy  waiters  dispensing  brown 
stout,  pale  ale,  and  half-and-half,  '  fresh  from  the 
wood,'  in  glittering  mugs.  We  sat  down  at  a 
side-table,  spread  our  napkins,  and  took  a  refresh- 
ing draught  of  the  English  malt.  The  chops  were 
brought  on  smoking,  and,  as  Cooper  said,  'hot 
and  hot,'  to  which  he  added,  *  You  see,  Ludlow,  we 
English  always  stick  to  the  old  Cockney  saying, 
"  No  matter  'ow  little  the  dish  may  be,  let  it  be 
'ot." '  Meanwhile  he  had  helped  me  bountifully, 
and  at  it  we  went  with  appetite  somewhat  sharp- 
ened by  the  unusual  length  of  time  which  had  in- 
tervened between  breakfast  and  dinner.  Cooper 
had  just  smacked  his  lips  after  the  first  mouthful 
of  his  chop,  when  I  called  to  the  waiter  for  some 
mustard. — '  Mustard  ?'  said  he,  holding  up  his  fork, 
upon  which  was  impaled  a  morsel  of  mutton  with- 
in a  few  inches  of  his  mouth.  '  What,  in  the  name 
of  common  sense,  do  you  want  with  mustard  ?' — 
'  Why,  what  should  I  want  with  mustard,'  said  I, 
taking  the  pot  from  the  waiter,  'but  to  put  it  on 
my  meat?' — 'What!'  he  exclaimed,  'eat  mustard 
with  mutton-chops? — Waiter,  take  it  away.  The 
man's  insane ;  he  does  not  know  what  he  is  do- 
ing.'— «  Not  a  bit  of  it,'  said  I,  and  proceeded  to 
apply  the  condiment,  when  Cooper  in  a  tone  of 
disgust,  with  his  hand  extended  and  resting  on 
the  table  in  a  most  emphatic  manner,  said,  'You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  eat  mustard  with  mut- 
ton-chops ?' — '  I  do,'  said  I,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  '  as  you  may  perceive.'  Never  did  Serjeant 


/ 
COOPER'S   QUALITIES   OF  HEART.  375 

Buzfuz  exclaim,  '  Chops  and  tomato-sauce !'  in  a 
tone  of  more  unqualified  astonishment  than  that 
in  which  Cooper  cried  out,  'Mutton-chops  and 
mustard !  Great  Heavens !  I  have  heard  of 
Yankee  pork  and  molasses,  but  mustard  and 
mutton !  I  can't  stand  that,  nor  will  I  sit  at  the 
table  and  countenance  such  barbarity/  I  thought 
he  was  in  jest,  and  went  on  munching  my  meal, 
but  soon  saw  it  was  no  joke,  for,  to  my  surprise, 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  threw  down  his  napkin,  called 
for  and  paid  the  bill,  and  with  a  low  bow  left  me 
sitting  at  the  table,  and  went  out  of  the  saloon." 

Cooper  was  hot-headed,  impulsive,  and  some- 
times overbearing,  but  he  had  many  redeeming 
qualities.  I  learned  in  a  South  Carolina  city  that 
one  day,  when  passing  a  place  where  they  were 
selling  a  lot  of  household  goods  on  the  sidewalk, 
he  stopped  and  asked  some  questions,  by  which 
he  found  that  the  sale  was  of  a  widow's  furniture 
distrained  for  rent.  He  stopped  the  sale,  handed 
the  auctioneer  the  amount  of  the  landlord's  claim, 
with  the  costs,  and  went  his  way. 

PICKING  UP  A   "FLAT." 

"Whilst  we  lived  in  the  Adelphi,"  says  Rey- 
nolds the  dramatist,  "  Garrick  was  our  opposite 
neighbor  and  my  father's  intimate  acquaintance. 
We  frequently  used  to  meet  him  in  John  street, 
and  join  the  little  circle  collected  by  his  most 
amusing  conversational  talents.  One  wet  day  I 
remember  Garrick  overtaking  my  father  and  me 


3?6  PICKED    UP  BY  THE  "FLAT." 

in  the  most  miry  part  of  the  city.  After  the  usual 
salutations  he  pointed  to  our  white  stockings  (he 
himself  being  booted),  and  asked  us  if  we  had  ever 
heard  the  story  of  Lord  Chancellor  Northington. 
On  our  reply  in  the  negative,  he  told  us  that 
one  rainy  afternoon  His  Lordship,  plainly  dressed, 
walking  in  Parliament  street,  picked  up  a  hand- 
some ring,  which,  according  to  custom  (in  past, 
and  I  believe  in  present,  times),  was  immediately 
claimed* by  a  gentleman  ring-dropper,  who  on  re- 
ceiving his  lost  treasure  appeared  so  joyful  and 
grateful  that  he  insisted  on  the  unknown  finder 
accompanying  him  to  an  adjoining  coffee-house  to 
crack  a  bottle  at  his  (the  ring  gentleman's)  ex- 
pense. 

"  Being  in  the  humor  for  a  joke,  Lord  Northing- 
ton  acceded,  and  followed  him  to  the  coffee-house, 
where  they  were  shown  into  a  private  room,  and 
over  the  bottle  for  a  time  discussed  indifferent 
topics.  At  length  they  were  joined  by  certain 
confederates,  and  then,  hazard  being  proposed, 
the  Chancellor  heard  one  whisper  to  another, 
'  Damn  the  loaded  dice !  he  is  not  worth  the  trou- 
ble. Pick  the  old  flat's  pocket  at  once!' 

"  On  this  the  Lord  Chancellor,  discovered  him- 
self, and  told  them  if  they  would  frankly  confess 
why  they  were  induced  to  suppose  him  so  enor- 
mous a  flat  he  would  probably  forget  their  pres- 
ent misdemeanor.  Instantly,  with  all  due  respect, 
they  replied,  '  We  beg  Your  Lordship's  pardon, 
but  whenever  we  see  a  gentleman  in  white  stock- 
ings on  a  dirty  day  we  consider  him  a  capital 


JIMMY  GREEN'S  STORY.  377 

pigeon,  and  pluck  his  feathers,  as  we   hoped  to 
have  plucked  Your  Lordship's.' 

"'Now,'  added  Garrick,  'leaving  you  gentlemen 
to  deduce  the  application,  I  do  myself  the  honor 
of  wishing  you  a  very  good-morning.'" 


A  STORY  OF  A   HAT. 

I  remember  a  very  amusing,  good-natured  fel- 
low who  had  lived  in  New  York,  but  at  the  time  of 
which  I  write  was  a  resident  of  Milwaukee  and  in 
the  employ  of  the  Adams  Express  Company.  He 
was  of  the  New- York-fireman  order,  and  withal  a 
lover  of  fun.  One  of  his  feats,  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment and  that  of  the  good  people  of  the  com- 
munity in  which  he  lived,  was  to  become  an  ama- 
teur actor  and  perform  the  part  of  Mose  at  the 
Milwaukee  theatre,  where  he  proved  to  be  as  ex- 
pert in  dramatic  effects  as  he  was  known  to  be  in 
"hitting  from  the  shoulder."  Among  the  laugh- 
ter-provoking stories  for  which  I  was  indebted  to 
Jimmy  Green  (as  I  shall  call  him)  was  the  follow- 
ing, which  I  have  no  doubt  will  be  esteemed  a  suit- 
able companion  for  Garrick's  story  of  "  The  White 
Stockings:" 

"  I  had  determined,"  said  Green,  "  to  take  a  run 
down  to  New  York  for  a  few  days  and  have  a 
good  time  with  *  the  b'hoys.'  Well,  just  before 
going  to  the  depot  I  stopped  to  take  leave  of  a 
friend  who  was  in  the  hat  business,  and  he  said 
to  me,  *  Why,  look  here,  Jimmy :  you  can't  do  a 
better  thing  than  to  buy  a  hat  before  you  leave.' 

32* 


378  JIMMY  IN  NEW   YORK. 

He  was  unpacking  a  case  marked  '  Bebee's  A, 
No.  i,  Latest  Style;'  'And  see,'  said  he,  holding 
up  a  prime  specimen.  'Just  look  at  this,  old  boy ; 
it  takes  the  shine  out  of  anything  this  side  the 
Lake.  Put  it  on  and  take  a  shy  in  the  glass.' — 
1  No,  no,'  said  I,  '  Mr.  Jones ;  it  won't  do,  by  no 
manner  of  means,  to  try  to  palm  off  a  Milwaukee 
castor  on  the  New  York  uncles.  No,  no ;  I  know 
better  than  that ;  I've  been  there  myself,  you 
know.' — '  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?'  said 
my  friend.  '  This  is  a  real  Bebee  A,  No.  i,  straight 
from  New  York — just  out — never  been  on  a  shelf 
or  a  head.  Let  me  put  it  in  a  box ;  carry  it  with 
you  in  the  cars,  and  when  you  get  to  New  York 
put  it  on,  and  I'll  bet  you  that  hat  no  one  will  come 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  guessing  that  you  bought 
it  in  Milwaukee.'  Well,  you  see,  I  couldn't  stand 
logic  like  that,  so  he  sold  the  hat  and  I  paid  for  it. 
When  I  arrived  in  the  city  I  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  be  of  the  sort  who  are  '  taken  in  and  done  for ' 
by  the  sharp  fellows  who  practise  on  flats ;  so  the 
first  thing  I  did,  after  a  square  meal,  was  to  get  a 
full  rig-out,  bran-span  new,  and  of  the  latest  cut, 
from  patent  leathers  to  neck-tie ;  then,  with  my 
fancy  stick,  kids,  and  lastly  the  new  hat,  I  set  out 
for  a  walk  on  the  Battery.  No  putting  on  airs, 
nothing  rustic  about  me !  I  trotted  along  like  a 
chap  that  had  been  there  before  and  knew  the 
price  of  tickets,  and  what  a  circus  was — Barnum's 
or  any  other  man's.  Well,  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  like  an  old  New  Yorker,  and  to  make  up  my 
mind  which  theatre  I  would  patronize,  when  I  felt 


RUSTICITY  EXPOSED   BY  A   HAT.  379 

a  slight  push  of  my  elbow,  and,  turning  round,  saw 
a  fellow  who  looked  just  as  if  his  landlady  had  told 
him  his  room  was  wanted  for  another  boarder  in 
case  that  little  matter  wasn't  settled  before  night. 
'  Well,  my  man,'  said  I,  pertly,  '  what's  up  now  ?' — 
'  I  know,'  he  replied,  '  you'll  pardon  a  poor  devil 
for  thinking  that  you  were  the  kind  of  man  to 
give  a  helping  hand  to  one  who  can't  help  him- 
self.'— 'Ah,  indeed!'  said  I;  'thank  you  for  that 
distinguishing  mark  of  your  keen  perception/ 
bowing.  So  the  fellow  bowed  too,  and  went  on. 
'  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,'  said  he,  '  I  was  just  on 
the  way  to  put  my  watch — '  '  Up  the  spout,' 
said  I,  interrupting  him. — 'No,'  said  he — 'to  pawn 
it.'_' Oh!'  said  I.— 'Yes/  he  replied.  'Nothing 
but ' — here  he  began  to  snuffle — '  sheer  want,  sick 
wife,  stranger  in  the  town,  doctor's  bill.'  Then, 
suddenly  changing  his  tone,  he  continued :  '  Would 
you  give  a  twenty  and  take  the  watch  ?' — '  My 
dear  fellow,'  said  I,  '  it's  no  go ;  you're  on  the 
wrong  beat ;  but  I'll  give  you  that  Mexican  dol- 
lar,' holding  one  up,  '  if  you'll  whisper  in  my  ear 
what  particular  part  of  my  "  get-up  "  led  you  to 
take  me  for  a  "  pick-up  "  from  the  rural  districts.' 
Holding  out  his  hand  and  pointing  to  my  head,  he 
coolly  replied,  'Your  hat,  sir.' — 'Jerusalem  cher- 
ries!' said  I.  'My  hat!  and  it  a  Bebee  A,  No.  i, 
transported  from  the  metropolis  to  the  provinces 
and  back  again,  before  a  rustic  air  could  give  it  a 
brush!'" 


I 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PECULIARITIES  OF  SOME   GREAT  ACTORS. 
BUCKSTONE'S  MANNERISMS. 

HAVE  before  referred  to  the  fact  that  actors 
are  prone  to  copy  such  methods  as  strike 
their  fancy  in  the  manner  of  some  celebrated  per- 
former. It  may  appear  strange  that  a  comedian 
should  adopt  the  peculiarities  of  a  tragedian,  and 
yet  such  has  frequently  been  the  case.  In  1836, 
when  I  first  heard  Mr.  Buckstone  and  Mr.  Keeley 
("Little  Bob,"  as  he  was  familiarly  called),  I  was 
struck  with  a  peculiarity  in  their  style  of  speaking 
and  the  quality  of  their  voices  that  seemed  to  re- 
call vocal  effects  very  suggestive  of  Mr.  Macready 
and  Mr.  Charles  Kean. 

Among  the  Irish  may  be  observed  two  remark- 
able modes  of  utterance  directly  opposite  to  each 
other.  For  instance,  one  will  commence  a  sen- 
tence with  great  rapidity  of  movement  and  ele- 
vation of  voice,  gradually  concluding  with  a  slow 
movement  and  low  pitch.  The  answer  to  the  fol- 
lowing passage  will  serve  as  an  illustration,  if  read 
after  the  manner  indicated :  "  Well,  Paddy,  you 
sha'n't  go  without  something  to  keep  life  in  you ; 
you  shall  have  a  little  grog  and  as  much  provision 

380 


BUCKSTONE' S  DELIVERY.  381 

as  I  can  spare  you  for  your  voyage." — "  Och !  that 
same  shows  there's*  the  good  heart  in  you.  Och, 
musha !  the  heavens  shower  blessings  on  you  and 
all  that  belong  to  you  !  I  pray  the  Virgin  Mary 
and  twelve  apostles,  not  forgetting  St.  Patrick !" 

Now,  let  the  following  be  read  by  starting  at 
a  slow  pace,  with  a  low  tone  and  increasing  to 
a  run  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  opposite  style 
will  be  presented :  "  Och !  may  the  angels  in 
heaven  be  kind  to  the  like  of  you,  and  a  long 
life  to  your  honor,  and  a  light  heart  and  a  power 
to  your  elbow,  and  a  heavy  purse  for  evermore ! 
I  pray  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  all  the  saints. 
Amen." 

Both  these  styles  of  utterance  were  percepti- 
ble in  Mr.  Buckstone's  delivery.  All  those  abrupt 
transitions,  chuckles,  and  alternations  from  brisk- 
ness to  gravity  by  which  his  audience  was  kept 
in  a  gale  of  merriment  were  among  the  strangest 
vocal  effects  imaginable,  and  yet  they  were  adroit- 
ly-managed burlesque  imitations  of  Kean,  Ma- 
cready,  and  Kemble.  Mr.  Buckstone  showed  in 
such  artificial  methods  his  powers  of  analysis  and 
recombination,  and  his  skill  as  a  dramatic  artist, 
but  confined  himself  within  the  narrow  limit  of  a 
mimetic  style.  The  following  remarks  will  serve 
to  show  how  apt  the  public  are  to  be  caught  by 
quaintness  of  outline  or  strongly-contrasted  col- 
oring. They  appeared  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Buckstone,  which  occurred  recently: 

"Two  good  things  can  be  said  of  Mr.  Buck- 
stone  that  can  be  said  of  few  low  comedians — 


382         SECRET  OF  BUCKSTONE' S  SUCCESS. 

there  was  no  bitterness  in  his  nature,  and  he  never 
wanted  to  act  tragedy.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
was  like  most  of  his  class  in  being  both  generous 
and  improvident.  Many  a  poor  actor  and  author 
was  the  recipient  of  his  bounty,  and  his  never- 
failing  kindness  of  speech  and  manner  was  the 
genuine  reflex  of  an  amiable  and  sympathetic 
nature.  Mr.  Buckstone,  strictly  speaking,  was 
an  'eccentric'  rather  than  a  'low'  comedian.  He 
had  little  variety  in  style,  and  in  truth  was  the 
same  in  almost  everything.  But  this,  whether  it 
should  have  been  so  or  not,  was  one  secret  of  his 
popularity.  He  had  an  extraordinary  quaintness 
of  delivery,  compounded  of  drawl  and  sudden 
volubility,  beginning  his  sentences  at  a  slow  walk, 
so  to  speak,  and  bringing  them  up  at  a  hand- 
gallop  that  was  extremely  funny.  His  hold  on 
the  London  audience  was  something  remarkable. 
The  house  was  in  a  titter  at  the  mere  sight  of 
him,  and  three  words  of  the  well-known  voice 
were  enough  to  set  the  audience  in  a  roar.  Per- 
haps there  never  was  an  actor  whose  power  to 
produce  laughter  was  more  spontaneous,  so  little 
the  product  of  art.  Mr.  Buckstone  was  nothing 
if  not  himself,  and  therefore  was  better  out  of 
the  legitimate  or  Shakespearian  drama  than  in  it. 
In  the  latter  he  had  to  respect  the  text,  and  the 
grotesque  liberties  he  was  wont  to  take  with  his 
words  and  the  public — although  never  in  a  coarse 
or  ungentlemanlike  spirit — found  in  these  walks 
no  place.  His  deafness  of  late  years,  although 
of  course  an  impediment,  sometimes  led  to  ludi- 


HIS  HINTS    TO  AUTHORS.  383 

crous  effects.  He  would  make  irrelevant  replies, 
through  not  catching  the  cue,  with  an  air  of  irre- 
sistible earnestness,  and  throw  the  scene  into  'ad- 
mired confusion '  in  a  fashion  that  would  not  have 
been  tolerated  with  another  performer,  but  which 
with  Buckstone  was  found  simply  delicious.  His 
literary  talent  was  considerable,  and  he  wrote  many 
clever  plays.  He  had  also  some  turn  for  poetry, 
but  this  was  little  exercised.  A  man  who  was  the 
friend  of  Walter  Scott  and  his  contemporaries,  who 
had  lived  to  know  the  youngest  of  the  Victorian 
poets  and  playwrights,  who  practised  his  art  with 
vigor  until  he  was  nearly  an  octogenarian,  and  who 
has  always  been  respected  in  one  of  the  most  try- 
ing of  professions,  Buckstone  leaves  a  gap  which 
for  those  who  loved  and  admired  him  can  never 
be  filled,  and  a  name  that  deserves  not  to  be  for- 
gotten." 

Mr.  Buckstone's  habit  of  taking  his  cue  from 
the  tragedian's  manner  of  speech  to  illustrate  his 
comedy  presentations  recalls  the  saying  that 
"There  is  but  one  step  from  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous."  It  has  been  suggested  that  Mr. 
Charles  Dickens  probably  took  hints  from  Buck- 
stone's  style  to  assist  him  in  producing  "broad 
grins "  in  his  popular  readings,  and  it  is  not  un- 
likely that  in  composing  his  fine  burlesque  ballad 
of  "  Captain  Reece  of  the  Mantelpiece,"  Mr.  Gil- 
bert had  in  his  "  mind's  ear "  the  abrupt  and  un- 
varying cadences  of  Buckstone. 


384  FLECK,    THE   GERMAN  ACTOR. 

LUDWIG  TIECK  ON  FLECK,  KEAN,  AND  KEMBLE. 

While  preparing  the  matter  for  this  volume  my 
attention  was  called  to  an  admirable  article  in  the 
February  number  of  The  Nineteenth  Century 
(London)  from  the  able  pen  of  Theodore  Martin, 
quoting  the  following  from  Ludwig  Tieck,  the 
celebrated  German  dramatic  poet  and  critic: 

"Johann  Friedrich  Fleck  was  born  in  1757, 
appeared  on  the  stage  in  1777,  rose  rapidly  to  the 
first  rank  in  his  profession,  and  retained  it  till  his 
death,  in  1801.  He  had  the  qualities  of  a  fine 
figure,  eyes,  and  voice,  and  of  an  expressive  face, 
without  which  no  actor  of  the  poetic  drama  can  be 
great.  Humor,  that  other  essential  of  the  great 
actor,  he  seems  also  to  have  possessed  in  an  emi- 
nent degree.  His  distinction  among  the  actors  of 
his  time  was  the  thoroughness  of  everything  he 
did.  He  was  not  fine  in  passages,  but  left  upon 
his  audience  the  impression  of  a  great  whole  of 
characters,  true  and  consistent  as  life  itself. 

"Fleck  was  slender,  not  tall,  but  of  the  finest 
proportions ;  he  had  brown  eyes,  whose  fire  was 
softened  by  gentleness,  finely  pencilled  brows,  a 
noble  forehead  and  nose,  and  in  youth  his  head 
resembled  that  of  Apollo.  In  the  parts  of  Essex, 
Tancred,  Ethelwolf,  he  was  fascinating,  especially 
so  as  the  Infante  Don  Pedro  in  Inez  de  Castro,  a 
part  written,  like  the  whole  piece,  very  feebly  and 
vulgarly,  but  every  word  of  which,  as  spoken  by 
him,  rang  like  the  inspiration  of  a  great  poet. 
His  voice  had  the  purity  of  a  bell  and  was  rich  in 


TIECK   ON  EDMUND   KEAN.  385 

full,  clear  tones,  high  as  well  as  low,  beyond  what 
any  one  could  believe  who  had  not  heard  them ; 
for  in  passages  of  tenderness,  entreaty,  or  devo- 
tion he  had  a  flute-like  softness  at  command. 
And,  without  ever  falling  into  the  grating  bass, 
which  often  strikes  so  unpleasantly  on  our  ear, 
his  deep  tones  rang  like  metal,  with  a  roll  like 
thunder  in  suppressed  rage,  and  a  roar  as  of  a 
lion  in  the  unchecked  tempest  of  passion.  The 
tragedian  for  whom  Shakespeare  wrote  must,  in 
my  opinion,  have  possessed  many  of  the  qualities 
of  Fleck,  for  those  marvellous  transitions,  those 
interjections,  those  pauses  followed  by  a  tempes- 
tuous torrent  of  words,  no  less  than  those  side- 
strokes  and  touches  of  Nature,  spontaneous, 
naive,  nay  sometimes  verging  on  the  comic,  which 
he  threw  into  his  performance,  were  given  with 
such  natural  truth  as  to  make  us  understand  for 
the  first  time  all  the  subtlety  and  peculiarity  of  the 
poet's  pathos." 

Tieck,  writing  of  Edmund  Kean  in  1814,  says: 
"  He  is  the  stage-hero  of  the  present  day. 
Those  who  are  ready  enough  to  join  in  the  cen- 
sure of  Kemble  and  the  mannerisms  of  his  school 
start  with  the  assumption  that  the  favorite  of  their 
idolatry  is  far  above  criticism.  Kean  is  a  little, 
slightly-built  man,  quick  in  his  movements,  and 
with  brown,  clever,  expressive  eyes.  Many  who 
remember  Garrick  maintain  that  Kean  is  like  him  ; 
even  Garrick's  widow,  who  is  still  alive,  is  said  to 
concur  in  this  opinion ;  but  she  will  hardly  agree 
with  the  many  admirers  of  Kean,  who  hold  that 

33  Z 


386          KEAN'S  MANNER    ON   THE  STAGE. 

he  acts  in  Garrick's  manner,  and  even  surpasses 
him  in  many  of  his  parts. 

"In  Hamlet  all  the  playful,  humorous  speeches, 
all  the  bitter,  cutting  passages,  were  given  in  the 
best  style  of  comedy.  But  he  could  not  touch  the 
tragic  side  of  the  character.  His  mode  of  delivery 
is  the  opposite  of  Kemble's.  He  speaks  quickly, 
often  with  a  rapidity  that  injures  the  effect  of  what 
he  has  to  say.  His  pauses  and  excess  of  emphasis 
are  even  more  capricious  and  violent  than  Kem- 
ble's ;  added  to  which,  by  dumb  show  or  sudden 
stops,  and  such  like  artifices,  he  frequently  imports 
into  the  verse  a  meaning  which,  in  a  general  way, 
is  not  to  be  found  in  it.  He  stares,  starts,  wheels 
round,  drops  his  voice,  and  then  raises  it  suddenly 
to  the  highest  pitch,  goes  off  hurriedly,  then  comes 
back  slowly  when  one  does  not  expect  him ;  by  all 
these  epigrammatic  surprises  crowding  his  imper- 
sonation with  movement,  showing  an  inexhausti- 
ble invention,  breaking  up  his  part  into  a  thousand 
little  frequent  bons-mots,  tragical  or  comic,  as  it 
may  happen ;  and  it  is  by  this  clever  way  of,  as  it 
were,  entirely  recasting  the  characters  allotted  to 
him  that  he  has  won  the  favor  of  the  general 
public,  especially  of  the  women.  If  he  does  not 
weary  the  attention  as  Kemble  does,  one  is  being 
constantly  circumvented  by  him,  and  defrauded,  as 
by  a  skilful  juggler,  of  the  impression,  the  emotion, 
which  we  have  a  right  to  expect.  Now,  on  the 
artist's  part  all  this  is  done  in  mere  caprice,  with 
the  deliberate  purpose  of  giving  a  great  variety 
of  light  and  shade  to  his  speeches,  and  of  intro- 


TIECK   ON  JOHN  KEMBLE.  387 

ducing  turns  and  sudden  alternations,  of  which 
neither  the  part  nor  the  author  has  for  the  most 
part  afforded  the  most  remote  suggestion.  This 
is,  therefore,  playing  with  playing,  and  more  vio- 
lence is  done  to  an  author — especially  if  that  au- 
thor be  Shakespeare — by  this  mode  of  treatment 
than  by  the  declamatory  manner  of  the  Kembles." 
The  same  writer  says  of  Kemble's  style  : 
11  On  his  first  entrance  John  Kemble  reminded 
me,  by  his  noble  presence,  his  stature,  and  speak- 
ing, expressive  face,  of  our  excellent  Heinrich 
Jacobi.  The  English  themselves  admit  that  even 
when  he  was  young  the  part  of  Posthumus  was 
one  of  his  weakest ;  how  much  more  now !  His 
voice  is  weak  and  tremulous,  but  full  of  expres- 
sion, and  there  is  a  ring  of  feeling  and  intelligence 
in  every  word,  only  much  too  strongly  marked, 
and  between  every  second  and  third  word  there 
comes  a  pause,  and  most  of  the  verses  or  speeches 
end  in  a  high  key.  In  consequence  of  this  tedious 
style  of  delivery  the  piece,  even  though  probably 
one-half  of  it  was  cut  out,  lasted  an  unusual  time. 
This,  so  to  speak,  musical  declamation  was  incom- 
patible with  all  real  acting — nay,  in  a  certain  de- 
gree made,  it  impossible — for  when  everything  is 
made  to  depend  on  little  nuances  of  speaking,  and 
every  monologue  and  every  single  passage  is 
sought  to  be  rounded  off  into  an  artistic  whole, 
any  delineation  of  character,  of  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  passion  and  feeling,  is  out  of  the  question. 
Here  and  there  one  saw  the  great  master;  for 
example,  in  the  second  act,  when  lachimo,  after 


388  KEMBLE  AS  HOTSPUR, 

his  return,  tells  how  he  has  succeeded;  the  de- 
spair, mingled  with  rage,  the  kindling  of  fresh 
hope,  and  the  falling  back  into  comfortless  an- 
guish, were  admirably  given,  and  one  could  see 
clearly  that  if  Kemble  had  not  succumbed  to  man- 
nerism and  a  one-sided  school  he  would  have  been 
a  truly  great  actor." 

In  Hotspur,  "  John  Kemble  declaimed  leisurely, 
intelligently,  making  frequent  efforts  at  the  humor 
of  the  part,  but  never  grasping  it.  Here,  too,  he 
spoke  quite  as  slowly  as  in  the  parts  I  had  pre- 
viously seen,  made  two  or  three  considerable 
pauses,  now  drawled  (klagte),  now  emphasized 
every  second  or  third  word,  one  could  not  say 
why,  and  then  ended  so  frequently  in  a  sort  of 
sing-song  in  all  that  I  thought  I  was  again  listen- 
ing to  one  of  those  Protestant  preachers  whom 
one  used  to  hear  twenty  years  ago  in  provincial 
places  indulging  in  this  wailing,  tedious  tempo. 
Percy's  first  long  story  to  the  king  Kemble  seem- 
ed to  take  as  serious  earnest,  only  exaggerated  by 
youthful  violence.  To  this  solemn,  almost  tortur- 
ing, slowness  the  ear  became  so  accustomed  that 
when  Percy  came  to  the  passage — 

In  Richard's  time — what  do  you  call  the  place  ? 
A  plague  upon  't !  it  is  in  Gloucestershire — 
'Twas  where  the  madcap  duke  his  uncle  kept, 

and  he  all  at  once  spoke  it  with  a  quick,  sharp 
utterance,  like  a  man  who  suddenly  cannot  call  a 
name  to  mind,  and  seeks  for  it  with  impatience, 
the  whole  house  broke  out  into  vehement  applause 


AND   AS  PRINCE  HAMLET.  389 

at  the  sudden  drop  of  the  voice  and  alteration  of 
the  tempo.  It  is  something  noticeable  when  a 
thing  of  this  kind — which  is  a  mere  matter  of 
course,  and  which  can  be  easily  hit  off  by  the  me- 
diocre actor — is  received  by  the  public  with  such 
marked  admiration.  This  mannerism,  which  often 
shows  itself  in  Kemble,  as  in  other  actors,  capri- 
ciously and  without  cause,  reminds  one  of  the 
tragic  recitations  of  the  French,  who  in  every 
scene  fling  out  some  verses  at  a  galloping  pace 
in  succession  to  passages  spoken  with  measured 
and  exaggerated  emphasis." 

"  In  Hamlet  what  Kemble  brought  prominently 
out  was  the  sad,  the  melancholy,  the  nobly-suf- 
fering aspect  of  the  character.  He  gave  way  to 
tears  much  too  often,  spoke  many  of  the  scenes — 
that  with  the  players,  for  instance — admirably,  and 
moved  and  bore  himself  like  a  man  of  high  blood 
and  breeding.  But,  as  usual,  there  was  almost  no 
distinction  between  the  lighter  and  heavier  parts 
of  the  play ;  and  then,  again,  the  distinction  be- 
tween prose  and  verse  was  nowhere  marked.  .  .  . 
When  Hamlet,  speaking  of  the  rugged  Pyrrhus, 
says, 

If  it  live  in  your  memory,  begin  at  this  line  :  let  me  see,  let 

me  see — 

"The  rugged  Pyrrhus,  like  the  Hyrcanian  beast  " — 
'Tis  not  so  : — it  begins  with  "  Pyrrhus  " — 

there  was  a  general  burst  of  applause  throughout 
the  house,  because  this  forgetfulness,  this  seeking 
after  the  beginning  of  the  verse,  was  expressed  in 

33* 


390        MARTIN'S   COMMENTARY  ON   TIECK. 

such  a  natural  way.  And,  indeed,  when  one  has 
been  listening  for  a  length  of  time  to  a  slow,  meas- 
ured, wailing  rhythm,  regularly  interrupted  by  con- 
siderable pauses  and  by  a  succession  of  highly- 
pitched  inflections,  one  is  quite  taken  by  surprise 
on  hearing  once  more  the  tones  of  Nature  and 
the  manner  of  every-day  conversation." 

Of  Coriolanus,  Tieck  says : 

"  Nobler  or  more  marked  expression  could  not 
be  given  to  the  proud  nature  of  Coriolanus,  and, 
figure,  look,  and  voice,  here  stood  the  artist  in  ex- 
cellent stead.  His  heroic  wrath  indeed  seemed 
too  feeble,  and  his  fury  failed  altogether,  because 
his  organ  was  too  weak  for  these  supreme  efforts, 
and  the  actor  had  to  economize  it  for  the  most  im- 
portant passages.  Greatest  and  most  exciting  of 
all  was  the  close ;  without  exaggeration  it  might 
be  pronounced  sublime." 

Mr.  Martin  makes  the  following  judicious  com- 
mentary on  the  remarks  of  the  German  critic: 

"Barren  although  our  stage  unhappily  is,  for 
the  time,  of  the  powers,  natural  and  acquired, 
which  can  alone  do  justice  to  the  Shakespearian 
drama,  Tieck's  account  of  what  he  saw  is  not 
wholly  without  consolation  for  us.  All  was  not 
so  perfect  in  those  so-called  palmy  days  of  the 
stage  as  some  would  have  us  believe.  Bad  acting 
was  not  uncommon  then,  any  more  than  now — as, 
indeed,  how  can  it  ever  be  otherwise  than  com- 
mon, the  art  being  so  difficult  as  it  is  ?  And  al- 
though there  were  actors  of  great  natural  gifts, 
and  who,  by  a  lifetime  of  study  and  observation, 


TRANSPOSITIONS   OF  LANGUAGE.  39 1 

had  trained  themselves  to  grapple  with  the  great 
characters  of  the  poetic  drama,  and  to  portray  the 
*  high  actions  and  high  passions '  by  which  they 
lifted  delighted  audiences  into  that  ideal  world 
which,  after  all,  seems  to  be  the  only  real  one,  the 
stage  of  that  period  was  far  behind  our  own  in 
this — that  liberties  of  excision  and  addition  were 
taken  with  the  text  of  Shakespeare  which  would 
now  be  impossible,  and  that  those  accessories 
which  give  life  and  variety  to  the  action  of  the 
scene  were  neglected  to  an  extent  as  culpable 
in  one  way  as  the  excess  in  scenic  splendor  and 
elaboration  of  costume  to  which  we  have  of  late 
years  been  accustomed  is  objectionable  in  an- 
other." 

SOME  AMUSING  TRANSPOSITIONS. 

A  blunder  committed  by  a  supernumerary  may 
give  an  actor  much  annoyance,  but  a  mistake  made 
by  himself  is  even  more  provoking.  Mr.  Cooper 
was  once  performing  in  the  character  of  Virginius. 
After  stabbing  his  daughter  to  save  her  from  the 
polluting  touch  of  Appius  Claudius,  Virginius 
stands  over  her  dead  body,  holding  aloft  the 
bloody  knife.  Appius  commands  his  lictors  to 
seize  him.  The  frenzied  father  shrieks  out  in 
tones  of  desperation — 

If  they  dare 

To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 
With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why  let  them.    Thus 
It  rushes  in  amongst  them  ! 
Way  there  !  way ! 


392  VIRGINIUS  BEFOGGED. 

Then,  dashing  at  the  advancing  lictors,  he  cuts  his 
way  through  and  escapes. 

By  some  unacccountable  freak  of  the  tongue, 
however,  when  he  heard  the  command  of  Appius 
to  seize  him,  instead  of  exclaiming,  "Thus  it 
rushes  in  amongst  them,"  he  yelled  out  in  the 
most  intense  rage,  "  Thus  it  mushes  in  arungst 
them  !"  and,  dashing  off  the  stage,  left  the  au- 
dience convulsed  with  irrepressible  laughter. 

In  the  same  play,  when  the  female  slave,  insti- 
gated by  Appius  Claudius,  makes  oath  that  she 
is  the  mother  of  Virginia,  Virginius  brings  his 
daughter  forward,  and,  appealing  to  the  citizens 
in  the  Forum,  exclaims — • 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave?     I  know 
"Tis  not  with  men  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 
The  stem ;  yet  who  from  such  a  stem 

{pointing  with  scorn  at  the  woman) 
Would  look  for  such  a  shoot?— 

laying  his  hand  tenderly  on  the  head  of  his  child. 

In  delivering  these  lines  the  tragedian,  Mr.  John 
R.  Scott,  with  great  earnestness  and  feeling  once 
made  the  following  strange  transposition  of  the 
closing  words  of  the  text: 

Who  from  such  a  shoot  {pointing  to  the  woman) 
Would  look  (taking  his  daughter  by  the  hand} 
For  such  a  stem  ? 

Then  followed  a  dead  silence.  The  actor  was 
quite  unconscious  of  the  blunder  he  had  made 
until  a  slight  demonstration  from  the  audience 


MACBETH  ALL  AT  SEA.  393 

gave  him  an  impression  that  something  had  gone 
awry,  when  the  sternness  of  his  features  gradu- 
ally gave  way  to  an  unmistakable  smile,  and  the 
whole  house,  performers  and  all,  burst  into  an 
uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

I  will  venture  to  add  yet  another  incident  of  a 
somewhat  similar  character.  In  the  tragedy  of 
Macbeth,  when  Malcom's  army  is  seen  approach- 
ing the  castle,  one  of  the  officers  of  the  usurping 
thane  rushes  into  his  presence,  crying  out,  "There 
is  ten  thousand — "  when  he  is  cut  short  by  Mac- 
beth's  contemptuous  and  indignant  exclamation 
of  "  Geese,  villain  ?"  to  which  the  messenger  re- 
plies, "Soldiers,  sir."  Now,  on  the  occasion  al- 
luded to  the  man  came  on  in  hot  haste,  and  said, 
"  There  is  ten  thousand — "  when  Macbeth,  turn- 
ing fiercely  on  him  cried  out,  "  Soldiers,  villain  ?" 
"  No,"  said  the  messenger,  in  a  tone  of  bewilder- 
ment— "  no,  no.  Geese,  sir."  And  then  the  two 
actors  stood  staring  at  one  another  in  blank  dis- 
may, while  peal  on  peal  of  laughter  burst  from 
the  audience,  in  which  the  tragedian,  unable  to 
preserve  his  gravity,  at  last,  joined.  Order  having 
been  restored,  an  attempt  was  made  to  go  on  with 
the  scene,  but  the  first  line  to  be  uttered  by  Mac- 
beth being  in  reference  to  the  affrighted  appear- 
ance of  the  messenger,  followed  by  an  indignant 
inquiry  as  to  who  the  soldiers  were,  it  was  too 
much  for  both  actor  and  audience ;  the  laugh 
recommenced,  and  did  not  cease  until  the  curtain 
fell. 

A  comical  effect  was  once  produced  by  Charles 


394  "STICKS"    UPON  THE  STAGE, 

Kemble  (as  Shylock),  by  transposing  uncon- 
sciously several  letters  in  the  phrase,  "Shall  I 
lay  perjury  upon  my  soul?"  and  making  of  it, 
"  Shall  I  lay  surgery  upon  my  poll  ?  No,  not 
for  Venice !" 

As  I  have  said  before,  many  imperfections  in 
the  business  of  the  stage  are  attributable  to  the 
ignorance — and,  I  may  add,  many  more  to  the 
heedlessness — of  the  persons  to  whom  are  en- 
trusted what  are  considered  the  insignificant 
parts ;  but  such  defects  may  be  in  a  great  mea- 
sure avoided  by  affording  the  servants,  messen- 
gers, and  other  subordinates  employed  on  the 
stage  a  pay  sufficient  to  enable  them  to  maintain 
themselves  creditably,  and  to  induce  them  to  take 
enough  interest  in  their  business  to  perform  its 
duties  with  care.  As  a  general  rule,  the  profes- 
sional value  of  the  actor  is  estimated  by  the  im- 
portance of  the  part  he  plays  or  by  the  size  of  the 
type  in  which  the  public  sees  his  name  printed 
on  the  bills. 


STICKS   OF  RED   SEALING-WAX. 

I  remember  an  old-time  theatre  where  many 
hard-working  actors  who  had  become  superannu- 
ated were  retained  to  play  little  parts,  "  going  on  " 
as  citizens,  villagers,  constables,  and  clerks.  They 
owned  their  own  "  properties,"  such  as  wigs,  shoes, 
tights,  long  stockings — which,  by  the  by,  were 
always  red — and  lace  collars  of  a  very  ample 
size  and  positive  pattern.  I  had  nearly  forgotten 


AND   MADAME    CELESTE.  395 

the  inevitable  black  leather  belt  and  huge  bright 
buckles.  The  wardrobe  of  the  theatre  furnished 
doublets,  tunics,  and  other  more  important  arti- 
cles of  dress.  As  a  youth  I  had  often  the  ardu- 
ous duty  assigned  to  me  of  acting  as  an  interpre- 
ter of  the  pantomimic  performances  of  the  well- 
known  actress  Madame  Celeste.  I  remember 
that  one  night,  as  I  waited  at  the  wing  ready  to 
"  go  on  "  with  her,  she  called  my  attention  to  four 
old  "  citizens  "'who  were  standing  in  a  row  before 
the  footlights.  For  some  very  proper  reason,  I 
have  no  doubt,  they  were  all  dressed  in  gray 
tunics,  with  long  red  stockings,  black  shoes  and 
rosettes,  and  as  they  stood  in  a  line  they  pre- 
sented as  fine  a  representation  of  Shakespeare's 
"  shrunk  shanks "  as  could  be  exhibited  to  the 
public  gaze.  The  madame  touched  my  elbow, 
and  in  her  usually  vivacious  manner  said,  "  Mis- 
tare  Murders"  (she  always  would  give  my  name 
that  extraordinary  pronunciation) — "  Mistare  Mur- 
ders, only  look !"  pointing  to  the  four  pairs  of  red- 
stockinged  legs :  "  did  you  evare  see  so  many 
sticks  of  red  sealing-wax  on  the  stage  before  ?" 
It  was  certainly  a  very  ridiculous  spectacle,  viewed 
from  the  standpoint  of  Madame  Celeste's  profes- 
sional exhibitions,  especially  as,  in  her  case,  what 
the  ladies  sometimes  term  "limbs"  were  by  no 
means  like  sticks  of  sealing-wax,  but,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Sam  Weller,  "  on  the  contrary,  quite  the 
reverse." 

It  was  with  some  compunction  that  I  laughed 
at  the  old  actors,  for  there  was  but  little  laughter 


396  "  THE  EARLY   VILLAGE   COCK." 

in  them ;  and  besides,  they  always  looked  upon 
themselves  as  representing  the  "  Old-Drury  "  style 
of  acting,  and  spoke  of  their  younger  brethren  as 
"  innovators  and  dashing  fellows,  without  the  so- 
lidity and  steadiness  of  the  old  style."  Though 
these  veterans  might  be  called  "  sticks  "  in  stage- 
parlance,  they  never  "  stuck  "  in  their  utterances, 
nor  could  they  be  accused  either  of  undue  haste 
or  excitement.  No ;  they  were  of  the  class  that 
always  take  time,  but  never  by  the  forelock :  not 
one  of  them  would  have  rushed  on  the  boards  ex- 
claiming to  a  horror-stricken  Richard  the  Third, 
"  My  lord,  'tis  I,  the  early  village  cock  !"  and  then 
forget  to  add  that  the  aforesaid  "  early  bird  "  had 
"  twice  done  salutation  to  the  morn."  No ;  my 
old  friends  in  the  red  stockings  would  have  waited 
for  the  word,  and  then  conscientiously  articulated 
every  syllable.  If  they  were  not  great  actors, 
they  were  good  men.  In  Europe  the  subordinate 
parts  have  always  careful  and  competent  repre- 
sentatives, because  the  public  will  brook  no  crude 
effects.  There  disapprobation  is  unequivocal  and 
expressed  by  hissing,  which  always  touches  the 
manager  and  appals  the  actor.  But  with  us  it  is 
not  unfrequently  manifested  in  derisive  laughter. 
I  remember  once  playing  in  a  theatre  of  the 
most  beautiful  architecture  and  costly  appoint- 
ment, the  company  of  which  was  ill-assorted  and 
ill-disposed,  and  without  a  "head  and  front"  of 
experienced  authority.  I  was  engaged  for  a  fort- 
night's performance  of  tragedy  and  comedy  at 
the  beginning  of  the  opening  season.  One  night, 


A    FUDDLED   HORATIO.  397 

in  acting  Hamlet  to  an  audience  which  fairly  rep- 
resented the  intellectual  and  cultivated  people  of 
the  city,  I  was  dismayed  to  see  my  Horatio  walk 
on  the  stage  in  the  most  mysterious  manner,  and, 
confidentially  laying  his  hand  on  my  arm,  he  held 
on  to  it  with  such  earnestness  that  I  quite  forgot 
Hamlet  in  the  conviction  that  my  friend  was  un- 
mistakably drunk,  and  that  his  affectionate  man- 
ner was  merely  intended  to  secure  his  perpendic- 
ularity, in  illustration  of  the  old  saying,  "United 
we  stand."  The  audience  merely  laughed  at  my 
drunken  Horatio,  but  they  should  have  hissed 
him. 

34 


CHAPTER   XX. 

SOME  REMINISCENCES   OF  ACTORS,    ACTRESSES, 
AND  MANAGERS. 

THE   PIONEER  MANAGER  OF   CHICAGO. 

"AN  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God ;" 
•**•  and  among  all  those  with  whom  I  have 
associated  in  a  long  professional  career,  I  have 
never  met  one  who  better  deserved  that  title 
than  Mr.  John  B.  Rice,  the  pioneer  manager  of 
Chicago.  I  knew  him  well.  He  enjoyed,  as  he 
deserved,  the  unlimited  esteem  of  all  with  whom 
he  had  business  transactions  or  exchanged  the 
courtesies  of  social  life. 

It  was  his  constant  habit  to  think  and  do  what 
was  right.  "  His  heart  was  open  as  the  day." 
He  did  his  duty  fearlessly  and  without  regard  to 
consequences.  As  a  husband  and  father  he  was 
faithful  and  true,  and  as  a  friend  disinterested  and 
generous.  Like  Abou  Ben  Adhem,  "he  loved 
his  fellow-men."  Like  Brutus, 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  "  This  was  a  man  /" 

By  those  who  were  not  intimately  acquainted 
with  him  he  was  not  unfrequently  esteemed  a  man 

398 


MR.    JOHN  B.   RICE.  399 

of  prosaic  character,  and  yet  "  castle-building " 
was  his  favorite  amusement.  He  loved  a  walk 
in  the  country  or  a  stroll  along  the  shore  of  the 
great  lake,  or  to  throw  himself  down  beneath 
some  tree  and  lie  for  hours  watching  the  passing 
clouds,  or  in  like  manner  at  night  commune  with 
the  stars,  "looking  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's 
God."  A  tendency  in  youth  to  such  "mental 
idling"  carried  him m  to  the  stage,  and  made  him 
at  first  successful  as  a  singer;  but  he  was  practi- 
cal as  well,  and  therefore  became  an  actor  of  many 
parts  and  a  manager  of  many  theatres.  In  early 
life  he  married  Miss  Mary  Ann  Warren,  an  act- 
ress, the  daughter  of  Mr.  William  Warren,  the 
old  favorite  actor  and  highly- esteemed  citizen 
of  Philadelphia,  to  whose  honesty  and  ability  in  the 
management  of  the  original  Chestnut  Street  The- 
atre the  dramatic  profession  owes  its  honorable 
record  in  what  has  been  termed  "  the  palmy  days 
of  Old  Drury."  Their  children,  one  son  and  five 
daughters,  were  reared  in  the  very  atmosphere  of 
the  theatre,  but  none  of  them  "  took  up  the  call- 
ing" of  their  parents.  Mrs.  Rice  was  not  fond 
of  the  profession,  and  yet  amid  her  maternal  du- 
ties and  household  cares  she  pursued  it  assidu- 
ously until  the  business  of  her  husband  became 
so  secure  as  to  render  such  labor  no  longer  ne- 
cessary, when  she  retired  to  private  life,  which 
she  still  lives  to  adorn. 

The  daughters  are  all  married,  and  worthily 
represent  the  virtues  of  their  parents.  The  only 
son,  William  Rice,  having  finished  his  education. 


40O         WARREN,    WOOD,    AND    JEFFERSON. 

became  a  machinist,  and  had  but  just  reached 
manhood  when,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  of 
the  Rebellion,  he  enlisted  in  a  company  of  vol- 
unteers formed  by  his  fellow-craftsmen  in  Chi- 
cago, was  elected  their  captain,  and  at  the  head 
of  his  company  fell,  in  defence  of  the  Union,  on 
the  battlefield  of  Chickamauga.  The  high  esti- 
mation in  which  Mr.  Rice  was  held  as  a  man  of 
probity  led  to  his  election  to  the  mayoralty  of 
Chicago,  and  to  his  re-election  for  a  second  and 
third  term ;  and  his  faithful  discharge  of  the  duties 
of  that  office  was  acknowledged  by  his  election 
to  Congress.  While  in  Washington,  however, 
his  health  failed,  and  he  finally  died  at  his  post — 
"a  good  and  faithful  servant." 

WARREN,  WOOD,  AND  JEFFERSON. 

Mr.  William  Warren,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Rice, 
for  many  years  delighted  the  people  of  Philadel- 
phia, Baltimore,  and  Washington  in  his  imperso- 
nations of  Falstaff,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  many 
kindred  characters.  Warren,  Wood,  and  Jeffer- 
son (the  grandfather  of  our  Jefferson)  were  ac- 
tors who  through  good  and  evil  report  upheld  the 
dignity  of  the  profession.  They  were  the  social 
equals  of  the  playgoers  who  at  the  advent  of  the 
theatre  in  America  represented  its  learned  pro- 
fessions and  best  society — to  whom  the  drama, 
as  then  conducted,  was  a  means  for  the  cultivaA 
tion  of  taste  and  a  source  of  rational  and  refined 
enjoyment.  In  those  days  the  stage  presented 


MRS.   MAEDER— THOMAS  BARRY.  401 

the  best  features  of  histrionic  delineation  and  the 
purest  forms  of  the  dramatic  art. 


MRS.  CLARA  FISHER  MAEDER. 

Mrs.  Clara  Fisher  Maeder,  to  whom  I  have  re- 
ferred in  connection  with  the  musical  education 
of  Miss  Charlotte  Cushman,  was  in  those  early 
days,  and  still  is,  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments 
of  the  profession.  Her  children  were  carefully 
brought  up  and  in  strict  accordance  with  religious 
principles.  Her  eldest  daughter  became  the  wife 
of  an  eminent  physician  of  Edinburgh,  and  is  still 
widely  known  in  that  city  for  her  intelligence,  re- 
finement, and  social  accomplishments.  The  other 
members  of  the  family  occupy  honorable  positions 
in  the  profession  of  their  mother,  and  share  with 
her  general  and  unqualified  respect. 

MR.  THOMAS   BARRY. 

The  late  Mr.  Thomas  Barry,  to  whom  I  have  allu- 
ded as  a  manager  of  the  Tremont  Theatre,  Boston, 
was  a  true  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  a  man 
of  unexceptionable  character,  and  a  valuable  cit- 
izen. He  was  twice  married,  his  first  wife  being 
an  actress  of  good  reputation  and  a  most  excel- 
lent woman.  His  second  consort  was  a  young 
Englishwoman,  also  an  actress  and  noted  for  her 
personal  charms,  fine  talents,  and  many  noble 
traits.  Their  family  consisted  of  a  son  and  three 
daughters,  and  no  woman  can  boast  a  brighter 

34*  2  A 


402  MRS.   ALEXINA    FISHER   BAKER. 

record  as  a  wife  and  mother.  Through  her  hus- 
band's checkered  career,  in  prosperity  and  adver- 
sity, she  was  a  loving  companion  and  faithful  help- 
meet. Their  home  in  Boston  was  a  model  of 
comfort  and  refinement,  and  their  children,  wor- 
thy of  their  parentage,  reflected  honor  upon  the 
calling  of  the  actor  and  enjoyed  the  highest  es- 
teem of  the  community  in  which  they  still  live. 
Mr.  Barry  died,  universally  respected,  at  a  good 
old  age,  having  more  than  fulfilled  the  alloted 
term  of  threescore  years  and  ten. 

MRS.  ALEXINA   FISHER  BAKER. 

Among  our  native  actresses  no  one  has  a 
brighter  record  than  Mrs.  Alexina  Fisher  Baker, 
the  widow  of  Mr.  John  Lewis  Baker,  a  most  ex- 
cellent actor  and  highly-respected  citizen  of  Phil- 
adelphia. Reared  from  her  earliest  childhood 
upon  the  stage,  educated,  it  may  be  said,  at  the 
feet  of  Thespis,  possessing  every  ennobling  wo- 
manly virtue,  by  nature  ardent  and  impulsive, 
and  yet  sensitive  and  retiring,  as  an  actress  she 
embodied  the  poetic  ideal  of  the  characters  she 
personated.  Whatever  criticism  may  have  said 
of  her  performances,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
she  has  ever  been  an  earnest  and  faithful  expos- 
itor of  the  sentiment  of  the  author  she  has  illus- 
trated, and  has  never  failed  to  receive  a  sympa- 
thetic response  from  her  auditors.  She  enjoys, 
as  she  merits,  the  unqualified  admiration  of  the 
various  communities  in  which  she  has  lived  and 


THE   WOMEN  OF  OUR  PROFESSION.         403 

acted,  reflecting  honor  upon  the  profession  to 
which  she  has  so  long  devoted  the  labors  of  an 
exemplary  life. 

I  have  been  induced  to  recall  these  private  his- 
tories— not  because  they  are  unusual  in  the  dra- 
matic profession,  but  as  affording  evidence  that 
it  is  entirely  consonant  with  a  faithful  discharge  of 
all  the  duties  of  life.  Among  the  actors  and  ac- 
tresses with  whom  I  have  studied  and  performed 
I  have  met  with  society  affording  all  the  intellect- 
ual and  social  enjoyments  which  can  be  found  in 
any  class  of  cultivated  people.  The  women  of 
the  profession  compare  favorably  in  every  respect 
with  the  best  of  their  sex  in  other  vocations,  and 
in  common  with  their  more  highly-esteemed  sis- 
ters have  exhibited  the  most  brilliant  virtues, 
which  have  often  beamed  through  shadows  of 
detraction  and  neglect.  My  memory  retains  the 
history  of  many  who  from  youth  to  age  have 
toiled  that  brothers  and  sisters  might  receive 
the  benefits  of  education  and  that  fathers  and 
mothers  might  enjoy  the  blessings  of  comfort- 
able homes.  Trite  but  true  are  the  words  of 
Pope- 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunello ; 

and,  again : 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 


404  "ELOQUENT  FLUENCE." 

A   MISTAKE   APPLAUDED. 

On  the  occasion  of  a  performance  of  the  Honey- 
moon  at  the  Tremont  Theatre,  Boston,  Miss  Ellen 
Tree  was  playing  Julianna,  and  I  enacting  the  part 
of  Rolando,  the  assumed  woman-hater,  when  an 
effect  was  produced  which  for  a  moment  threaten- 
ed my  discomfiture ;  but,  fortunately  for  my  rep- 
utation as  a  correct  actor,  it  resulted  in  an  unex- 
pected triumph.  My  stumbling-block  will  be  found 
in  the  following  speech.  Rolando  asserts  the  im- 
possibility of  taming  a  woman  "  with  the  nine  parts 
of  speech;"  Montalban  replies  that  the  Duke 
Aranza  had  the  power  to  subdue  the  imperious 
beauty  Julianna,  saying, 

He  has  the  trick  to  draw  the  serpent's  fang, 
And  yet  not  spoil  her  beauty ; 

and  Rolando  adds — 

Could  he  discourse  with  fluent  eloquence 
More  languages  than  Babel  sent  abroad, 
The  simple  rhet'ric  of  her  mother-tongue 
Would  pose  him  presently  ;  for  woman's  voice 
Sounds  like  a  fiddle  in  a  concert — always 
The  shrillest,  if  not  the  loudest,  instrument. 

I  had  given  the  previous  lines  of  Rolando  with  all 
the  spirit  that  they  required  and  I  could  command, 
and  began  the  first  line  of  the  reply  to  Montalban 
with  a  gayly-intoned,  brisk  movement ;  but  at  the 
end  of  the  first  line,  instead  of  saying  "  fluent  elo- 
quence," I  said  with  fearful  distinctness,  "  eloquent 
fluence,"  and  in  my  attempts  to  correct  myself  got 


SAMUEL   K.   MURDOCH.  405 

my  tongue  and  lips,  as  it  were,  mixed  up  in  a  mud- 
dle of  cross-purposes;  at  which,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  the  audience,  after  trying  to  smother  the 
inclination,  gave  way  to  uncontrollable  laughter. 
Feeling  mortified  at  my  mistake,  I  set  my  teeth 
firmly,  and,  taking  a  long  breath  through  my  nos- 
trils, made  a  fresh  start,  deliberately  articulating 
every  element  in  each  syllable,  and,  as  I  repeated 
the  line,  "fluent  eloquence  "  came  out  with  the  clear 
ring  of  the  pure  metal ;  at  which  the  audience,  who 
had  stopped  laughing  and  were  as  silent  "  as  mice 
in  a  cheese,"  greeted  my  success  with  hearty  cheers 
and  round  after  round  of  applause. 


AN  EPISODE   OF  ISTHMUS   TRAVEL. 

My  brother,  Samuel  K.  Murdoch,  now  and  for 
many  years  past  a  professor  of  elocution,  is,  like 
myself,  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  and  in  the  mem- 
orable riots  of  1844  commanded  an  artillery  com- 
pany and  gained  much  distinction  in  efficient  ser- 
vice against  the  violators  of  the  public  peace  in  the 
streets  of  Southwark.  At  that  period  and  there- 
after he  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  study  of  med- 
icine, and  attended  medical  lectures  with  a  view 
to  admission  and  practice  as  a  physician.  But  in 
1849  he  was  induced  to  accompany  our  youngest 
brother,  Edward  Murdoch,  on  a  "fortune-seeking" 
expedition  to  California,  where  he  spent  some  time 
in  "prospecting"  for  gold  among  the  mountains, 
and  finally  purchased  a  tract  of  land  in  the  San 
Jose  Valley,  and  commenced  its  cultivation.  While 


406  THE  AUTHOR   IN  CALIFORNIA. 

engaged  in  these  agricultural  pursuits  he  also  found 
occasional  opportunities  to  aid  the  sick  and  suffer- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  of  his  new  home,  for  which 
a  natural  gift,  cultivated  by  his  previous  studies, 
peculiarly  qualified  him. 

At  this  time,  however,  at  the  suggestion  of  some 
old  friends  from  Philadelphia,  he  appeared  on  the 
stage  at  San  Francisco  as  Pierre  in  Venice  Pre- 
served, and  then  played  Hotspur  in  Henry  the 
Fourth  and  several  other  first-class  parts,  closing 
a  week's  engagement  with  a  benefit.  His  success 
was  such  as  to  warrant  his  making  arrangements 
for  a  permanent  pursuit  of  the  profession,  for  which, 
by  his  studious  habits,  his  voice,  and  personal  ap- 
pearance, he  was  well  qualified. 

In  1853,  I  visited  California,  and,  as  my  health 
was  not  good,  he  consented  to  accompany  me  as 
a  medical  adviser  in  my  journeys  through  that 
region,  in  the  course  of  which  at  times  he  success- 
fully performed  important  characters  in  the  plays 
in  which  I  appeared.  But  continuous  exposure  in 
a  climate  to  which  I  was  unaccustomed,  and  con- 
stant professional  labor,  at  the  close  of  a  year's 
engagements  rendered  my  immediate  return  to 
"  the  States  "  an  imperative  necessity  ;  and,  that  I 
might  receive  proper  attention  on  the  way,  he  de- 
termined to  accompany  me  home.  We  accordingly 
took  passage  in  a  steamer,  the  owners  of  which, 
as  we  afterward  learned  and  found  occasion  to 
regret,  had  made  a  heavy  wager  with  the  propri- 
etors of  a  rival  vessel  as  to  which  would  make 
the  shortest  time  from  the  Pacific  to  the  city  of 


TROUBLE    ON   THE   ISTHMUS.  407 

New  York.  In  the  midst  of  our  voyage  the  cap- 
tain discovered  that  by  the  contrivance  of  inter- 
ested parties  in  San  Francisco  he  had  received  an 
insufficient  supply  of  coal,  in  consequence  of  which, 
when  we  were  within  three  days  of  Panama,  it  was 
exhausted.  After  using  every  effort,  by  landing 
at  all  available  points  among  the  islands  and  cut- 
ting down  trees  for  fuel,  the  captain  was  finally 
obliged  to  depend  entirely  upon  his  sails  to  finish 
the  voyage  to  Panama.  On  arriving  there  it  was 
found  that  the  railroad-train  we  expected  to  con- 
vey us  across  the  Isthmus  had  been  appropriated 
by  the  passengers  of  the  other  steamer,  which 
had  come  in  twenty-four  hours  before  us,  thus 
winning  the  race  on  the  Pacific  side.  We  had 
therefore  to  await  the  arrival  of  another  train, 
which  resulted  in  a  detention  of  twenty-four  hours 
more,  bringing  the  time  of  our  departure  to  the 
close  of  the  following  day.  Haying  made  but 
little  progress,  we  arrived  in  the  darkness  at  a 
bridge  which  the  conductor  declared  to  be  unsafe, 
and  we  were  forthwith  "switched  off"  to  a  side- 
track, where  we  passed  the  night  in  the  cars, 
breathing  a  miasmatic  atmosphere  pestilent  to  all 
but  the  native  reptiles  and  buzzards.  At  about 
daybreak  on  the  following  morning  our  journey 
was  resumed,  but  not  until  after  we  had  found 
that  another  train  on  its  way  to  the  same  place 
had  passed  safely  over  the  bridge  during  the 
night,  the  passengers  from  which,  we  realized 
with  much  indignation,  would  by  right  of  prece- 
dence secure  all  the  available  accommodation  on 


408  A   MUTINY  IN  PROGRESS. 

board  of  the  ship  about  to  sail  for  New  York 
before  we  should  be  able  to  arrive,  which  would 
compel  us  to  endure  a  still  further  trial  of  patience 
by  additional  detention  in  the  ill-provided  and 
overcrowded  public-houses  of  Aspinwall. 

We  proceeded  slowly,  and  stopped  at  various 
points  along  the  road,  where,  without  any  appa- 
rent cause,  long  delays  occurred,  until  an  opinion 
began  to  prevail  that  these  detentions  were  all 
preconcerted;  and  at  one  of  the  stopping-places 
an  individual  suspected  of  being  an  emissary  of 
the  rival  steamship  company,  and  who  had  made 
himself  particularly  obnoxious,  was  seized  by  the 
passengers,  who  were  on  the  point  of  ducking 
him  in  the  muddy  water  of  the  swamps  when  the 
shrill  whistle  of  the  engine  caused  the  crowd  to 
drop  the  object  of  their  resentment  and  rush  for 
the  cars,  their  timely  departure  being  evidently 
made  in  the  interest  of  the  suspected  party. 

Considering  the  general  character  of  the  pas- 
sengers and  the  nature  of  their  grievances,  it  was 
not  unnatural  that  they  should  feel  resentful,  the 
majority  of  them  being  men  unaccustomed  to  sub- 
mit to  the  slightest  imposition  or  even  quietly  to 
endure  the  expression  of  an  adverse  opinion.  So 
the  spirit  of  mutiny  at  last  became  overwhelming, 
and  finally,  on  the  stopping  of  the  train  in  the 
suburbs  of  Aspinwall,  the  more  excitable  of  the 
party  began  to  lose  all  self-control,  and  threats  of 
vengeance  previously  uttered  by  a  few  were  then 
heard  on  every  hand,  indicating  a  general  outbreak 
of  violence.  Several  persons  while  at  the  stations 


AN  ASSASSINATION  PREVENTED.  409 

had  procured  tallow  candles,  which  they  lighted, 
and,  holding  the  flames  against  the  painted  canvas, 
burnt  fantastic  figures  on  the  ceilings  of  the  cars 
amid  laughter  and  applause,  while  the  other  in- 
terior work  was  subjected  to  damage  in  various 
ways. 

In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  disorder  several 
persons  were  engaged  in  a  violent  quarrel  of  their 
own,  which  soon  reached  a  climax.  Finding  all 
efforts  to  preserve  order  unavailing,  my  brother 
and  I  were  about  to  leave  the  car  when  we  saw  a 
man  immediately  in  front  of  us  reaching  for  the 
pistol-pocket  in  his  pantaloons,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, as  he  attempted  to  seize  his  opponent  by 
the  throat,  my  brother  caught  hold  of  his  collar, 
and,  whirling  him  quickly  round,  threw  him  on  his 
back,  wrenching  from  his  grasp  the  revolver,  which 
he  had  already  drawn,  and  crying  out,  "  The  man 
who  fires  into  such  a  crowd  as  this  is  an  assassin 
and  a  fool." 

The  suddenness  of  this  act  and  the  determined 
tone  of  his  voice  brought  the  more  reasonable  of 
the  crowd  to  their  senses,  but  before  there  was 
time  for  the  excitement  to  cool  a  furious  fellow, 
brandishing  a  formidable  knife,  cried  out,  "I'm  not 
for  firing  into  a  crowd,  but  I  go  clear  in  for  satis- 
faction on  this  company,  which  has  cheated  us. 

Let  us  cut  the  d d  cars  to  pieces;  and  here 

goes  for  the  first  lick." 

At  the  same  time  he  raised  his  knife  with  a 
sweeping  motion  toward  the  side  of  the  car,  the 
body  of  which  was  partly  composed  of  cane-  or 

35 


410  THE  EMEUTE    QUIETED. 

bamboo-work.  Before  he  could  make  the  intend- 
ed slash,  however,  amid  cries  of  "That's  the  talk !" 
" That's  the  ticket!"  "Out  with  your  knives, 
men!  that's  the  thing  to  do!"  I  succeeded  in 
arresting  his  arm,  and  exclaimed,  "  No,  no ;  that's 
not  the  thing  to  do.'* 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  said  the  man  with  the  knife 
as  he  shook  off  my  hold — "  who  are  you  ?" 

"  Your  friend,"  I  replied,  "  and  the  friend  of  the 
men  you  are  about  to  injure." 

"This  infernal  railroad  company  is  no  friend 
of  ours,"  was  his  retort. 

"  That  may  be,"  said  I,  "  but  you  forget  the  pas- 
sengers who  are  waiting  at  Aspinwall  for  these 
very  cars,  the  only  ones  they  are  likely  to  get  to 
take  them  to  the  steamer  at  Panama,  by  which 
they  are  to  reach  California,  where  they  expect 
to  find  some  of  the  same  sort  of  yellow  stuff 
you  are  carrying  home  in  your  pockets.  Just 
put  yourselves  in  the  place  of  those  poor  fel- 
lows, and  where's  the  man  who  will  strike  the 
first  blow?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence,  and 
then  the  leader  cried  out,  "/won't,  for  one,  old 
fellow.  You're  right — you're  right  all  the  time! 
That's  the  miner's  stamp :  Be  just  and  defy  the 
devil !  Your  head's  level !  Bully  for  you  i" 

At  which  the  crowd  set  up  an  approving  shout 
of  "  Hurrah  for  Californy  and  the  old  home 
States !" 

The  threatened  train  was  thus  left  uninjured, 
while  the  still  excited  crowd  gave  vent  to  their 


AN  OLD   STORY  RETOLD.  411 

feelings  in  yells  which  plainly  showed  that  with- 
out an  appeal  to  their  sympathy  and  common 
sense  they  could  have  been  fully  equal  to  the 
destruction  they  had  deemed  an  act  of  justice. 

A  THRICE-TOLD   TALE,  WITH  AN  APPENDIX. 

There  is  an  old  story  about  an  actor  who  made 
a  laughable  mistake  in  delivering  the  lines  ad- 
dressed to  Richard  the  Third  when  he  obstructs 
the  funeral  procession  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth : 

RICHARD. 

Villains,  set  down  the  corse,  or,  by  Saint  Paul, 
I'll  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys. 

OFFICER. 
My  lord,  stand  back,  and  let  the  coffin  pass. 

The  actor,  it  is  said,  instead  of  giving  the  words 
as  they  stood  in  the  quotation,  cried  out  in  the 
usual  tone  of  command, 

My  lord,  stand  back,  and  let  the  parson  cough. 

This  story  being  told  one  night  in  the  green- 
room, it  was  remarked  by  an  actor  present  that 
any  one  who  could  commit  such  a  blunder  must  be 
a  donkey.  Another  replied  that  it  was  possible  for 
a  nervous  man  to  make  such  a  mistake  and  yet 
not  prove  himself  an  ass.  This  led  to  a  discus- 
sion, and  finally  a  bet  was  made  that  the  objector 
under  similar  circumstances  would  do  the  same 
thing.  The  question  was  to  be  decided  upon  the 
next  performance  of  the  "  crooked-backed  tyrant." 


412  THE    OBJECTOR    CAUGHT. 

The  night  came,  and  found  our  actor-officer  full 
of  confidence  in  his  ability  correctly  to  deliver  the 
text.  Some  time  before  going  on,  however,  he 
was  observed  walking  up  and  down  behind  the 
scenes  muttering  to  himself  "  and  let  the  coffin 
pass,"  while  now  and  then,  from  the  actors  am- 
bushed in  the  dusky  corners,  out  of  earshot  of  the 
audience,  came  "  let  the  parson  cough,"  his  fellow- 
performers,  in  their  love  of  fun,  being  determined 
to  keep  alive  in  his  memory  a  recollection  of  the 
fatal  transposition.  The  cue  was  given  for  his 
entrance,  and  the  officer  took  his  place  on  the 
scene,  when,  perceiving  the  actors  standing  in  the 
wings,  watching  his  movements  in  expectation  of 
his  failure,  he  began  to  be  nervous,  and  as  Rich- 
ard, advancing,  cried  out,  "  I'll  make  a  corse  of 
him  that  disobeys,"  down  came  the  officer's  lev- 
elled pike  before  the  tyrant's  breast  as  he  ex- 
claimed, "  My  lord,  stand  back,"  and  then,  in 
spite  of  every  precaution,  he  blurted  out  the  ter- 
rible words,  "and  let  the  parson  cough!"  The 
astonished  Richard,  hesitating  in  his  reply,  afford- 
ed to  the  audience  and  the  actors  full  opportunity 
to  realize  and  enjoy  the  joke,  which  of  course  was 
anything  but  a  joke  to  him,  who  not  only  lost  his 
bet,  but  by  his  own  judgment  was  "  written  down 
an  ass,"  and  pack-saddled  with  the  laughter  of  the 
whole  theatre. 

MR.  JOHN  G.  GILBERT. 

The  professional  career  of  Mr.  John  G.  Gilbert 
presents  a  remarkable  instance  of  dramatic  talent. 


MR.    JOHN  G.    GILBERT.  413 

This  gentleman  first  appeared  in  Boston  as  an 
amateur  in  tragedy,  and  continued  for  some  time 
to  sustain  prominent  parts  in  that  line  with  much 
success ;  but  it  was  not  until  the  close  of  an  ex- 
tensive round  of  playing  in  a  great  variety  of  cha- 
racters, under  the  able  management  of  Mr.  James 
H.  Caldwell  in  the  South  and  West,  that  he  became 
distinguished  for  a  wonderful  .power  in  the  delin- 
eation of  the  characters  of  old  men,  for  which  he 
has  now  been  celebrated  for  nearly  a  half  century. 
Mr.  Gilbert  has  always  been  noted  for  an  exact 
delivery  of  the  text,  for  a  just  and  natural  expres- 
sion of  thought  and  feeling,  and  for  a  correct  ob- 
servance of  propriety  in  all  the  details  of  costume. 
Exact  conformity  to  such  indispensable  require- 
ments for  the  impersonation  of  character  marks 
the  true  artist  and  shows  the  actor's  regard  for 
his  profession.  Mr.  Gilbert  not  only  stands  de- 
servedly conspicuous  for  dramatic  talent,  but  is 
no  less  so  for  unblemished  character  and  the 
possession  of  every  gentlemanly  quality. 

A  striking  evidence  of  Mr.  Gilbert's  power  as 
an  actor  was  exhibited  during  the  engagement  of 
Miss  Ellen  Tree  in  Boston  in  1836.  In  The  Maid  of 
Milan  Miss  Tree  performed  the  character  of  Clari 
and  Mr.  Gilbert  that  of  Romano,  and  in  the  impas- 
sioned interview  between  the  unhappy  parent  and 
the«nisguided  daughter  the  part  of  the  father  was 
played  with  such  apparent  intensity  of  natural 
feeling  as  to  absorb  performers  and  auditors  alike, 
investing  the  scene  with  all  the  living  realities  of 
suffering,  sorrow,  and  distracting  passion.  I  have 

35* 


41 4  WILLIAM   WARREN,    JR. 

never  seen  an  audience  more  completely  under 
the  sway  of  dramatic  power  than  on  that  occasion. 
For  a  time,  with  sobs  and  tears  and  other  evidences 
of  intense  emotion,  they  seemed  to  have  become 
actual  mourners  over  some  common  affliction.  In 
all  this  remarkable  exhibition  the  skill  of  the  artist 
was  the  more  manifest  on  account  of  the  rustic 
simplicity  of  the  scene  and  the  absence  of  all 
mere  stage-accessories. 


WILLIAM  WARREN,  JR. 

During  my  first  season  at  the  Chestnut  Street 
Theatre,  Philadelphia,  in  1833,  one  evening,  while 
waiting  for  "  my  call "  in  the  greenroom,  I  ob- 
served a  youth  slight  in  figure  and  looking  much 
like  a  student  of  divinity  at  home  for  a  vacation. 
He  was  silent  and  thoughtful  in  expression  and 
very  formal  in  manner.  He  was  very  soon  pre- 
sented to  me  as  William  Warren,  Jr.,  who  had 
just  made  his  first  appearance  at  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre  in  the  character  of  Young  Norval.  After 
some  years  I  met  him  again  in  that  professional 
school  for  youthful  Thespians,  the  West.  In  the 
hard  work  of  a  hard  occupation,  mental  and  phys- 
ical, studying  a  multitude  of  dry  words  day  by 
day,  and  striving  at  night  to  clothe  them  in  the 
fitting  vesture  of  expressive  tone,  did  William 
Warren,  Jr.,  acquire  the  profession  of  his  father 
and  mother.  I  remember  saying  to  him  when  he 
told  me  of  his  intention  to  try  Boston,  "  Don't  do 
it ;  you  will  lose  your  ambition  by  tying  yourself 


STAGE-TRADITIONS  ABJURED.  415 

down  to  the  slow  routine  of  Eastern  professional 
life.  The  West  has  a  larger  field  and  more  vital- 
ity." But  I  was  not  a  prophet.  He  went  to  Bos- 
ton in  1846  and  joined  the  "  Museum  Company," 
and,  by  natural  ability,  careful  cultivation,  and  de- 
votion to  professional  duty  he  educated  his  audi- 
ences to  an  appreciation  of  true  dramatic  art. 
He  also  inspired  his  fellow-actors  with  his  own 
professional  spirit,  and  thus  contributed  very 
largely  to  the  successful  establishment  of  an  in- 
stitution which,  with  the  exception  of  Wallack's 
Theatre  in  New  York,  may  be  pronounced  the 
only  permanent  "  home  of  the  drama "  in  our 
country.  Admired  for  his  talents  and  beloved  for 
his  personal  qualities,  William  Warren  is  indeed 
the  "  observed  of  all  observers "  in  Boston  and 
its  multitudinous  environs. 


ABJURATION  OF  STAGE-TRADITIONS. 

I  have  heretofore  referred  to  the  advantages 
which  may  result  from  a  judicious  observance  of 
such  features  of  the  technical  business  of  the  stage 
as  have  been  approved  and  practised  by  old  and 
distinguished  actors.  I  wish  what  I  have  said 
upon  this  subject,  however,  to  be  received  as 
merely  suggestive,  and  as  referred  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  intelligent  dramatic  student.  There 
is  still  abundant  room  for  professional  improve- 
ment, and  much  may  yet  be  done  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  stage  even  by  what  may  be  consider- 
ed irreverent  innovation.  The  degree  of  regard 


41 6         MRS.   SID  DONS  AND    THE   CANDLE. 

which  is  paid,  not  unfrequently,  by  great  perform- 
ers to  traditionary  stage-routine,  merely  because 
it  is  traditionary,  has  been  well  illustrated  by  Mrs. 
Siddons  in  an  account  of  her  first  appearance  as 
Lady  Macbeth. 

Mrs.  Siddons  states  that  she  had  undertaken  to 
perform  the  character  with  great  diffidence,  par- 
ticularly in  view  of  the  reputation  which  had  been 
acquired  by  Mrs.  Pritchard  in  the  same  part.  The 
night  had  arrived,  and,  having  just  completed  her 
toilette,  she  was  deeply  absorbed  in  mental  prepa- 
ration when  Mr.  Sheridan  knocked  at  the  door,  and, 
disregarding  all  her  entreaties  that  she  should  not 
be  disturbed,  insisted  upon  being  admitted,  declar- 
ing that  he  must  speak  to  her  in  relation  to  a  mat- 
ter of  the  utmost  importance  and  which  seriously 
concerned  her  own  interest.  Feeling  compelled 
at  least  to  admit  him,  that  she  might  be  able  to 
dismiss  him  the  more  promptly  and  regain  her 
composure  before  the  commencement  of  the  play, 
she  was  astonished  to  find  that  he  wished  her  at 
that  late  moment  to  change  the  mode  in  which 
she  had  determined  to  act  the  "  sleeping-scene." 
He  said  that  he  had  learned,  with  the  greatest 
surprise  and  concern,  that  she  did  not  intend  to 
retain  the  candle  in  her  hand ;  and  when  she 
urged  the  impossibility,  should  she  do  so,  of 
washing  out  the  "damned  spot,"  he  insisted  that 
if  she  did  put  the  candle  out  of  her  hand  it  would 
be  considered  a  presumptuous  innovation,  inas- 
much as  Mrs.  Pritchard  had  always  retained  it. 
It  was  too  late,  however,  to  reconsider  her  plan, 


HAMLET   TOO    DEEP  FOR    YOUTH.          417 

although  respect  for  the  judgment  of  Mr.  Sheridan 
would  have  induced  her,  in  opposition  to  her  own 
views,  to  accept  his  had  they  been  presented  in 
time,  and  she  accordingly  acted  the  scene  as  she 
had  intended. 

The  "  innovation  "  was  received  with  approval, 
and  Mr.  Sheridan  came  to  her  after  the  play  and 
congratulated  her  upon  her  "  obstinacy." 

Before  making  my  appearance  upon  the  stage 
I  had  studied  the  character  of  Hamlet ;  that  is,  I 
had  committed  the  words  to  memory  and  learned 
to  recite  them  after  the  manner  prescribed  by  my 
elocutionary  teacher,  Mr.  L.  G.  White,  who  had 
pronounced  me  in  every  respect  qualified  to 
personate  the  "  melancholy  Dane."  Influenced  by 
this  assurance,  and  in  a  spirit  of  reckless  adven- 
ture, I  made  the  necessary  arrangements,  and 
attempted  the  rehearsal,  progressing  satisfacto- 
rily in  soliloquy  and  dialogue  until  I  reached  the 
"play-scene,"  when  I  suddenly  discovered  that  I 
was  "  beyond  my  depth."  My  teacher  was  disap- 
pointed, but  the  manager  regarded  my  failure  with 
evident  satisfaction,  and  advised  me  to  try  the  cha- 
racter of  Frederick  in  Lovers  Vows,  a  part  better 
adapted  to  my  youth  and  inexperience ;  and  I  did 
so  with  success.  After  ten  years'  service  in  the 
ranks  of  the  profession,  with  gradual  promotion, 
and  three  years'  careful  study  of  Hamlet,  I  once 
more  attempted  its  rehearsal,  and  then  the  "  flighty 
purpose"  was  followed  by  the  "deed,"  and  I  found 
myself  elected  by  the  popular  voice  to  a  place  in 
the  court  of  Denmark. 


41 8    HAMLET'S  OLD-TIME  PLUME  DISCARDED. 

My  first  appearance  in  the  character  of  Ham- 
let was  in  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  in  1845, 
where  my  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Barry,  was  the 
stage-manager.  Mr.  Barry  was  of  the  Kemble 
school,  and  in  his  own  acting  much  given  to  a 
stately  style  of  speech  and  bearing.  Hamlet,  in 
his  mind,  was  not  only  to  be  dressed  in  black,  but 
"  steeped  to  the  very  lips "  in  gloom,  sombre  in 
mood  and  grave  and  deliberate  in  utterance  and 
gait.  The  even  tenor  of  his  princely  demeanor 
was  never  to  be  disturbed  by  the  slightest  man- 
ifestation of  levity,  or  even  thoughtlessness,  no 
matter  how  much  the  language  of  the  part  might 
suggest  such  departure.  I  remember  his  aston- 
ishment when  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  intend  to 
wear  a  black  plume,  and  that  it  reminded  me  of 
the  decoration  of  a  hearse.  "  Why,  my  dear  sir," 
said  he,  "  had  you  ever  seen  John  Philip  Kemble 
in  that  character,  as  he  stood  in  the  glare  of  the 
court  attired  in  his  suit  of  sables,  grand  and 
gloomy,  with  his  noble  features  shaded  by  the 
dark  waving  plumes  of  his  hat,  you  would  never 
consent  to  trust  yourself  to  the  bald  effect  of  an 
uncovered  head."  I  did  not  wear  a  plume,  how- 
ever, nor  did  I  fail,  in  the  face  of  traditionary 
usage,  to  follow  the  teachings  of  Shakespeare  by 
an  occasional  departure  from  the  shadow  of  "  the 
tragic  pall "  in  the  premeditated  levity  of  manner 
appropriate  to  Hamlet's  eccentric  moods,  in  which 
he  assumes  what  is  foreign  to  his  nature,  the  mask 
of  "an  antic  disposition." 


EPILOGUE. 

I  feel  unwilling  to  close  this  work  without  an 
acknowledgment  of  indebtedness  to  my  old  and 
esteemed  friend,  Mr.  FERDINAND  J.  DREER  of  Phil- 
adelphia, at  whose  suggestion  I  have  taken  these 
pages  from  a  series  of  my  lectures  entitled  Rem- 
iniscences of  the  Stage,  and  arranged  them  for  pub- 
lication in  this  form;  and  I  trust  that  no  disap- 
pointment may  result  from  an  omission  to  notice 
many  theatrical  performers  distinguished  for  per- 
sonal and  professional  ability,  an  association  with 
whom  has  been  prevented  by  circumstances  which 
have  placed  me  without  the  dramatic  circle  for 
many  years. 


419 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


I. 

THE  following  able  article  on  the  uses  and  abuses  of  the 
Drama  and  the  Theatre  appeared  originally  as  a  com- 
munication in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger  for  March, 
1841,  and  was  handed  me  at  the  time  by  a  friend  while  I 
was  playing  an  engagement  at  Richmond,  Va.  I  introduce 
it  in  this  volume  with  feelings  of  peculiar  gratification,  under 
the  impression  that  it  speaks  the  language  of  many  lovers  of 
the  drama  in  all  parts  of  our  country : 

THE   DRAMA. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  manifold  corruptions  and  abuses  by 
which  theatrical  exhibitions  are  now  unhappily  disgraced,  I 
cannot  help  retaining,  I  must  own,  my  early  predilection  for 
such  entertainments.  When  I  reflect  on  the  great  poetical 
genius  and  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature  evinced  in  the 
composition  of  our  best  plays,  the  sportive  wit  and  biting 
satire  with  which  they  expose  the  weaknesses  and  vices  of 
men,  I  cannot  but  think  that,  under  proper  regulation,  they 
might  be  made  subsidiary  to  the  great  objects  of  moral  and 
literary  instruction.  That  there  are  irregularities  (to  use  the 
mildest  term)  in  the  management  of  the  theatre  which  de- 
mand reform,  even  its  warmest  advocates  must  acknowledge ; 
nor  should  it  create  surprise  that  pious  men,  disgusted  with 
these  irregularities,  should  denounce  such  amusements  as  per- 
nicious and  contaminating.  I  am  aware  that  those  who  con- 

423 


424  APPENDIX. 

demn  the  stage  in  all  its  aspects  and  influences  constitute  a 
respectable  and  powerful  body,  and  that  they  conscientiously 
believe  it  repugnant  to  religion  and  injurious  to  the  best  inte- 
rests of  mankind.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  question  their  sin- 
cerity or  insult  their  honest  convictions.  Such  a  course  might 
embitter  prejudices  and  confirm  opposition,  but  could  never 
make  a  single  proselyte.  Satire  and  ridicule  are  poisoned 
weapons  which  ofttimes  "return  to  plague  the  inventor;" 
and  those  who  employ  such  means  in  the  vindication  of  the 
theatre  contrive  only  to  render  it  more  odious,  and  embolden 
others,  more  inimical  to  religion  and  religious  men  than  zeal- 
ous for  the  true  interests  of  the  drama,  to  use  the  stage  as  a 
vehicle  for  the  most  indecent  aspersions  on  the  motives  and 
principles  of  its  opponents.  Respect  is  due  to  the  opinions  of 
the  religious  community  even  when  unsupported  by  reason  ; 
nor  can  it  be  endured  that  buffoons  should,  with  an  impious 
levity,  make  sport  of  things  which  inspire  every  well-regu- 
lated mind  with  respect  and  reverence.  When  the  stage,  as 
at  present  conducted,  is  so  obviously  vulnerable  to  the  cen- 
sure of  the  moralist,  it  behooves  its  friends  to  abstain  from 
all  offensive  warfare  on  those  who  undertake  to  criticise  its 
abuses — to  strive  rather  to  disarm  and  conciliate  their  antag- 
onists by  the  suppression  of  those  practices  with  which  the 
drama  is  so  frequently  polluted,  and  to  introduce  a  purer  and 
more  exalted  standard  of  taste  and  morals  into  its  exhibitions. 
To  relume  its  faded  glories,  to  restore  its  salutary  influences, 
to  convert  it  from  a  pander  to  the  vilest  and  most  grovelling 
passions  of  our  nature  into  the  handmaid  of  virtue  and  arbiter 
of  taste,  is  a  consummation  only  to  be  accomplished  by  the 
co-operation  of  the  wise  and  good.  It  is  indeed  a  question 
entitled  to  grave  consideration  whether  the  friends  of  virtue 
do  not  owe  it  to  the  sacred  cause  they  have  espoused  to  pro- 
mote a  change  so  essential  to  the  moral  improvement  of 
society — whether,  by  withdrawing  their  countenance  from 
the  theatre,  they  do  not  allow  it  to  be  perverted  into  an 
engine  of  mischief,  a  potent  instrument  for  the  dissemina- 
tion of  vice. 

When  we  review  the  history  of  the  English  theatre,  the 


APPENDIX.  425 

most  prominent  feature  that  strikes  our  attention  is  its  rapid 
degeneracy  after  the  restoration  of  Charles  the  Second  to  a 
throne  which  he  disgraced  not  more  by  his  tyranny  than  by 
his  shameless  debaucheries.  The  early  and  glorious  dawn 
of  the  English  drama  was  then  obscured  and  overcast  by  the 
murky  vapors  exhaled  from  a  court  reeking  with  every  spe- 
cies of  profligacy;  and  the  immortal  productions  of  Shake- 
speare, Jonson,  Massinger,  Ford,  Beaumont,  and  Fletcher 
were  supplanted  in  public  favor  by  the  loathsome  though  bril- 
liant obscenities  of  Dryden,  Farquhar,  and  Congreve.  Pub- 
lic opinion  would  now  brand  with  infamy  any  man,  however 
great  his  genius  and  acquirements,  who  should  venture  to 
utter  in  mixed  society  language  offensive  to  decorum  or 
should  stain  his  pages  with  indecent  epithets  and  allusions. 
Why  is  it  that  public  opinion,  the  great  arbiter  of  taste 
and  morals,  has  not  effected  the  same  salutary  change  in  the 
theatre  which  it  has  wrought  in  conversation  and  literature  ? 
It  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  frequent  repetition  of  indel- 
icate allusions  in  promiscuous  crowds  of  men  and  women,  by 
familiarizing  the  young  and  ardent  of  both  sexes  to  immodest 
thoughts  and  images  of  vicious  pleasure,  tends  to  awaken  the 
passions  and  to  efface  those  impressions  of  disgust  and  abhor- 
rence which  such  ideas  usually  produce  in  the  unsophisticated 
bosom.  The  effect  of  such  practices,  therefore,  unless  dis- 
couraged by  timely  rebuke,  will  be  to  banish  modest  women 
from  the  theatre ;  and  to  what  a  state  of  grossness  and  de- 
pravity must  our  drama  be  reduced  when  the  salutary  restraint 
imposed  by  the  presence  of  respectable  females  is  withdrawn  ? 
The  influence  of  that  amiable  sex  in  refining  and  polishing 
the  manners  of  men  is  felt  and  admitted  in  the  intercourse  of 
private  society.  If  we  observe  the  conduct  of  men  in  those 
assemblages  for  amusement  from  which  modest  women  are 
excluded,  we  may  form  some  conception  of  the  disorder, 
violence,  and  obscenity  which  would  disgrace  our  theatres 
when  no  longer  honored  by  the  presence  of  the  softer  sex. 
Let  respectable  females  renounce  all  share  in  dramatic  enter- 
tainments, let  good  men  stigmatize  them  as  the  prolific  source 
of  vicious  dissipation,  and  the  stage  will,  in  truth,  be  trans- 
36* 


426  APPENDIX. 

formed  into  a  pandemonium  more  hideous  than  the  heated 
fancy  of  its  bitterest  adversaries  has  ever  depicted. 

It  is  an  obvious  proposition  that  plays  and  their  perform- 
ance must  be  adapted  to  the  taste  of  those  for  whose  amuse- 
ment they  are  designed ;  and  if  theatrical  audiences  are  com- 
posed wholly  or  in  a  great  measure  of  men  of  vulgar  ideas 
and  dissolute  habits,  it  is  certain  that  such  spectacles  will 
assume  a  corresponding  hue  and  character.  Were  the  major- 
ity of  those  who  throng  the  avenues  of  the  playhouse  pious 
and  virtuous  persons,  resolved  to  visit  every  breach  of  deco- 
rum, every  immoral  act  and  sentiment,  with  marks  of  decided 
reprobation,  the  actors  from  motives  of  interest  would  consult 
the  feelings  of  those  whose  patronage  and  support  would  be 
so  essential  to  their  professional  fame  and  emoluments.  Prior 
to  the  English  Commonwealth  dramatic  amusements  were  not 
discountenanced  by  religious  men.  Even  the  stern  genius  of 
Milton  did  not  disdain  to  impart  a  dramatic  form  to  the  off- 
spring of  his  muse,  and  the  Masque  of  Comus,  one  of  his 
most  enchanting  poems,  was  actually  submitted  to  private 
representation.  But  when,  in  the  political  ferment  which  ter- 
minated in  the  overthrow  of  the  monarchy,  the  stern,  self- 
denying  sectaries  of  that  age — many  of  them  illiterate  and 
unpolished  men — obtained  the  ascendency,  all  harmless  amuse- 
ments and  elegant  recreations  were  indiscriminately  pro- 
scribed. To  men  who  regarded  polite  literature  not  only 
as  an  idle  and  unprofitable  pursuit,  but  as  incompatible  with 
the  spirit  of  devotion,  it  was  not  surprising  that  the  theatre 
should  be  obnoxious.  Equally  averse  to  the  mirth  that  cheers 
and  the  elegancies  that  adorn  life,  these  gloomy  enthusiasts, 
with  a  tyranny  resembling  that  of  Procrustes,  exacted  from 
all  orders  of  men  a  rigid  conformity  to  their  own  ascetic 
habits.  This  renunciation  of  the  most  innocent  enjoyments 
as  dangerous  and  sinful,  this  self-infliction  of  pain  and  suffer- 
ing, scarcely  less  severe  than  the  penances  of  those  anchor- 
ites who  were  driven  by  a  misdirected  zeal  to  caves  and  des- 
erts in  the  early  ages  of  Christianity,  was  too  repugnant  to 
human  nature  to  be  durable,  and  produced,  in  the  natural 
order  of  events,  a  correspondent  reaction.  The  excesses  of 


APPENDIX.  427 

sincere  but  mistaken  devotion  were  then  succeeded  by  a  pe- 
riod of  unbounded  license  and  shameless  relaxation  of  morals ; 
and  the  subsequent  corruption  of  the  drama  was  the  neces- 
sary result.  Had  the  pious  and  uncorrupted  part  of  the 
nation,  instead  of  resigning  the  control  of  the  stage  to  a 
party  as  devoid  of  religion  as  of  common  decency,  continued 
to  partake  of  its  amusements,  their  presence  might  have  res- 
cued the  dramatic  Muse  from  such  degrading  prostitution, 
and  checked,  in  some  degree,  the  spread  of  that  selfish  prof- 
ligacy which  infused  its  poison  into  the  pleasures  as  well 
as  the  business  of  life.  Even  the  worst  men  pay  an  invol- 
untary homage  to  moral  worth,  and  in  spite  of  all  their  blus- 
tering are  overawed  by  the  frown  of  offended  virtue. 

To  mingle  with  the  motley  audience  of  a  theatre,  it  may  be 
said,  would  sully  the  purity  of  the  Christian  character ;  but 
that  argument,  if  pursued  to  its  consequences,  would  banish 
the  religious  man  from  all  promiscuous  assemblages  not  con- 
vened for  purposes  of  devotion.  Is  he  not  as  likely  to  en- 
counter in  those  public  meetings  not  yet  forbidden  by  the 
most  austere  to  which  he  resorts,  without  scruple,  at  the  call 
of  interest  or  inclination,  scenes  and  characters  uncongenial 
with  his  feelings,  as  in  the  purlieus  of  a  playhouse?  Are 
not  court-greens,  muster-grounds,  and  elections  places  where 
vicious  men  are  always  found,  where  practices  are*  often  in- 
dulged in  which  excite  the  abhorrence  of  a  good  man  ?  And 
yet  who  is  deterred  from  attending  such  assemblages  in  com- 
pliance with  the  demands  of  either  business  or  pleasure? 
What  form  of  depravity,  I  would  ask,  infests  the  theatre 
which  does  not  rear  its  brazen  front  in  the  streets  of  a  popu- 
lous city?"  Do  not  the  dissolute  and  profane  intrude  into 
the  haunts  of  traffic  as  well  as  of  amusement?  Are  we  not 
jostled  by  the  votaries  of  dissipation  in  the  crowded  street, 
and  disturbed  in  the  public  hotels  by  their  bacchanalian  rev- 
elries ?  Must  pious  men,  therefore,  shun  all  places  of  public 
resort,  and  fly  to  solitude  as  their  only  refuge  against  con- 
tamination ?  We  are  told  by  the  highest  authority  that  they 
"are  the  salt  of  the  world/'  and  consequently  they  should 
mingle  freely  with  the  world  to  purify  and  reform  it.  The 


428  APPENDIX. 

frivolous  gayeties  or  the  grosser  excesses  of  fashionable  life 
would  never  seduce  from  the  path  of  rectitude  those  whose 
hearts  are  fortified  by  religious  principle,  whose  affections  are 
fixed  on  higher  objects;  and  such  men  could  pass  through 
these  allurements  with  as  much  security  as  the  people  of  Israel 
through  the  Red  Sea. 

But  it  has  been  alleged  that  theatrical  exhibitions  are,  in 
their  nature,  unfriendly  to  feelings  of  devotion,  and  engender 
that  levity  and  dissipation  of  mind  which  it  is  the  chief  de- 
sign of  religion  to  correct.  May  not  the  same  thing  be 
affirmed  of  any  other  amusement?  Have  not  all  pleasurable 
indulgences,  if  not  judiciously  restrained,  the  same  baneful 
effect  on  the  mind  ?  Even  that  rational  cheerfulness  which 
the  most  morose  will  not  condemn  constantly  threatens  to 
betray  us  into  the  very  evils  so  studiously  eschewed  by  the 
opponents  of  the  theatre.  Men  cannot  always  be  serious. 
"The  feast  of  reason"  uncheered  by  "the  flow  of  soul" 
will  pall  upon  the  strongest  palate.  Such  is  the  constitution 
of  human  nature  that  some  recreation  is  indispensable  to  di- 
versify our  graver  occupations,  to  soften  the  toils  and  smooth 
the  asperities  of  life.  Surely  no  one  will  maintain  that  all 
amusement  must  be  relinquished  —  that  the  harmless  mirth 
and  pleasantry  which  embellish  social  intercourse  must  be  re- 
nounced, because  the  abuse  of  such  things  may  disqualify  the 
mind  for  serious  reflection.  And  yet  if  the  supposed  tend- 
ency of  theatrical  diversions  to  indispose  us  for  devout 
meditation  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  abstaining  from  them 
altogether,  we  should  be  bound,  acting  on  the  clearest  anal- 
ogies, to  abjure  in  like  manner  amusement  of  every  descrip- 
tion. 

I  am  not  the  apologist  of  the  corruptions  of  the  stage ;  but 
were  those  corruptions  reformed,  I  am  unable  to  perceive  any 
inherent  tendencies  in  the  drama  unfavorable  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  religious  sentiments.  If  it  be  not  pernicious  to  read 
a  good  play  in  one's  closet,  what  harm  can  result  from  wit- 
nessing its  representation  on  the  stage?  If  the  affecting  scenes 
and  noble  sentiments  which  adorn  our  best  plays  tend,  even 
on  a  calm  perusal,  to  purify  and  exalt  the  moral  sense,  would 


APPENDIX.  429 

not  these  good  impressions  be  deepened  when  the  witchery 
of  the  actor  gives  them  voice  and  emphasis?  Should  it  be 
said  that  the  pleasure  derived  from  such  spectacles  is  prone  to 
be  carried  to  excess,  I  ask,  What  is  there  productive  of  agree- 
able emotion,  either  in  body  or  mind,  that  has  not  the  same 
tendency?  Are  not  the  pleasures  of  taste,  the  amusements 
of  elegant  literature  (pleasures  and  amusements  purely  intel- 
lectual), also  liable  to  inordinate  indulgence?  Are  not  the 
toils  of  the  student,  the  researches  of  philosophy,  frequently 
prosecuted  at  the  expense  of  health,  and  to  the  neglect  of 
that  moral  culture  which,  in  the  view  of  the  religious  world, 
should  be  paramount  to  all  other  pursuits?  And  must  we 
abstain  front  all  the  enjoyments  of  sense  and  intellect  with 
which  a  beneficent  Providence  has  supplied  us  because  human 
nature,  from  its  constitution,  is  addicted  to  the  intemperate  use 
of  all  things  that  minister  to  its  gratification  ?  Such  reason- 
ing would  consign  mankind  to  a  life  of  privation  and  self- 
denial  more  intolerable  than  the  most  rigid  austerities  of 
Catholic  superstition.  A  stoic  or  an  anchorite,  by  striving 
to  extinguish  the  passions,  to  stifle  those  inborn  propensities, 
those  eager  yearnings  after  pleasure,  implanted  in  the  human 
bosom  for  wise  purposes,  counteracts  the  beneficence  of  his 
Creator;  but  a  Christian  philosopher  teaches  a  doctrine  far 
more  practicable  and  more  consonant  with  our  relations  to  the 
Supreme  Being.  He  tells  us  that  we  are  placed  here  to  enjoy, 
as  well  as  to  suffer ;  that  guilt  and  misery  are  the  fruits,  not 
of  the  regulated  indulgence,  but  of  the  excess  of  our  passions ; 
and  that  by  the  moderate  use  of  our  multiplied  blessings  we 
best  show  our  gratitude  to  the  great  Giver  and  the  ascendency 
of  virtuous  principle  over  brutal  appetite.  Religion  exacts 
no  sacrifice  of  those  pleasures  which  become  sinful  only  from 
their  abuse,  but  has  wisely  hedged  in  our  path  with  duties  that 
warn  us  when  their  gratification  ceases  to  be  blameless. 

But,  in  truth,  is  not  this  objection  to  the  theatre  as  applica- 
ble to  the  business  as  to  the  enjoyments  of  life?  Are  not  the 
allurements  which  incite  us  to  the  pursuit  of  gain,  of  power, 
and  of  distinction  apt  to  terminate  in  excess?  Do  not  the  pas- 
sions, awakened  by 'objects  so  eagerly  coveted  by  all  classes 


430  APPENDIX. 

of  men,  too  often  acquire  an  undue  predominance  over  our 
hearts  ?  Are  they  to  be  condemned,  therefore,  as  unlawful, 
and  shunned  as  fraught  with  the  destruction  of  our  eternal 
hopes?  If  so,  what  remains  within  the  sphere  of  human 
action  to  which  a  pious  man  may  safely  direct  his  attention  ? 
In  this  enlightened  age  no  one,  I  am  sure,  however  strict  in 
his  notions  of  religious  duty,  would  be  disposed  to  push  his 
principles  of  self-restraint  to  such  a  preposterous  extreme. 
All  agree  that  the  rewards  of  industry  and  talent  are  legit- 
imate subjects  of  competition,  and  the  devotee  becomes  a 
candidate  for  these  tempting  acquisitions  without  incurring 
reproach  or  imagining  that  the  engrossing  nature  of  the  pur- 
suit might  shake  the  stability  of  his  religious  pri»ciples.  But 
is  there  not  danger  that,  when  the  ordinary  channels  of  enjoy- 
ment are  closed,  the  affections,  confined  within  a  narrower 
compass,  will  be  forced  with  preternatural  violence  through 
those  that  are  left  open — that  avarice  and  ambition  will  usurp 
the  dominion  of  those  hearts  which  are  denied  the  solace 
of  gratifications  less  sordid  and  unsocial?  Among  the  thou- 
sand examples  of  a  deep  insight  into  human  motives  evinced 
by  the  writings  of  Shakespeare,  there  are  few  more  striking 
than  the  scene  where  he  makes  Caesar  point  to  the  sour, 
austere  gravity  of  Cassius  as  an  evidence  of  the  dangerous, 
designing  character  of  the  future  conspirator;  for  it  is  in 
such  natures  that  the  gloomy,  selfish  passions  of  avarice  and 
ambition  most  readily  take  root. 

The  idea  that  religion  demands  a  total  estrangement  of  its 
votaries  from  the  world  and  its  amusements  wholly  precludes 
those  benignant  influences  which  the  pious  man  would  other- 
wise exert  on  public  manners  and  opinions.  It  cannot  be 
doubted  that  religion  has  contributed  largely  to  implant 
higher  notions  of  duty  and  a  purer  standard  of  moral  senti- 
ment throughout  the  civilized  world,  even  among  those  who 
refuse  to  acknowledge  its  divine  obligation.  To  the  same 
cause  may  be  principally  ascribed  the  correction  of  the  gross- 
ness  and  indecency  with  which  conversation  and  literature 
were  formerly  sullied.  If  religious  men  had  refused  to  min- 
gle in  the  social  circle  with  those  who  did  not  subscribe  to 


APPENDIX.  431 

their  articles  of  faith,  or  if  they  had  taken  no  interest  in  the 
progress  of  letters,  would  a  reformation  so  beneficial  in  its 
consequences  have  ever  been  effected  ?  If  the  same  inter- 
dict were  proclaimed  against  association  with  unbelievers  and 
against  elegant  literature  which  has  been  so  sternly  enforced 
against  the  theatre,  how  speedily  would  we  relapse  into  bar- 
barism, and  how  soon  would  the  evil  passions  of  men,  un- 
checked by  the  dread  of  public  censure,  wear  off  that  gloss 
of  refinement  which,  if  it  be  not  virtue,  banishes  at  least  the 
provocatives  to  vice !  The  reasoning  which  assumes  that  a 
participation  in  what  are  called  innocent  amusements  would 
impair  or  destroy  the  feeling  of  devotion  applies,  though  per- 
haps in  a  less  degree,  to  a  familiar  commerce  with  the  uncon- 
verted part  of  mankind.  The  worldliness  and  frivolity,  not 
to  say  impiety,  which  frequently  disfigure  the  conversation 
of  such  persons  are  ofttimes  as  incompatible  with  serious 
reflection,  as  apt  to  awaken  rebellious  thoughts  and  impulses, 
as  those  fashionable  recreations  which  fill  the  minds  of  so 
many  worthy  people  with  pious  horror.  And  are  these  pur- 
ists prepared  to  carry  out  their  principles  of  exclusion  by 
imposing  a  perpetual  quarantine  on  unbelievers — by  insisting 
on  a  total  separation  of  professors  from  those  who  are  still 
without  the  pale  of  the  Church?  Such  a  rigid  non-inter- 
course, such  a  Chinese  wall  of  intolerance,  would  assuredly 
repel  the  intrusion  of  the  thoughtless  votaries  of  pleasure, 
and  counteract  every  effort  to  reclaim  them  from  errors  of 
practice  scarcely  less  pernicious  than  errors  of  opinion.  It 
is  in  the  intercourse  of  society,  the  interchange  of  courtesy 
and  kindness,  the  offices  of  friendship  and  benevolence,  that 
piety  assumes  its  most  winning  and  amiable  aspect.  It  is 
there  that  youth,  attracted  by  its  mild  and  steady  cheerful- 
ness, ceases  to  be  giddy  and  volatile,  and,  unscared  by  the 
asperity  of  reproof,  imbibes  unwittingly  the  lessons  of  true 
wisdom.  Surely  every  one,  however  adverse  to  the  defile- 
ments of  the  world,  must  confess  that  the  slight  evil  arising 
from  promiscuous  society  is  more  than  compensated  by  these 
advantages.  If  such  be  the  moral  benefits  accruing  from  the 
example  of  religious  men  in  the  intercourse  of  private  life, 


43 2  APPENDIX. 

can  any  reason  be  assigned  why  their  participation  in  the 
diversions  of  the  stage  would  not  eventually  redeem  those 
diversions  from  the  opprobrium  of  fostering  the  vicious  pro- 
pensities of  mankind  ?  The  efficacy  of  their  power  over  pub- 
lic opinion  was  displayed  in  the  cleansing  of  that  moral  lep- 
rosy which  infected  the  whole  mass  of  society  in  the  sixteenth 
century ;  and  surely  the  defects  of  the  theatre  are  not  so  in- 
veterate but  that  in  this  more  refined  and  enlightened  age 
they  would  yield  to  the  same  sanitary  influence. 

An  objection  to  dramatic  amusements  which  has  operated 
with  as  much  force  as  any  on  the  religious  world  is  the  loose 
and  dissipated  habits  by  which  actors  are  too  frequently  dis- 
tinguished. It  is  said  that  to  encourage  theatres  is,  in  truth, 
to  patronize  an  idle,  worthless,  and  abandoned  class  of  people ; 
and  the  question  is  asked  emphatically  whether  it  comports 
with  the  principles  of  religion  to  lavish  upon  a  set  of  drones 
and  vagabonds,  who  are  nuisances  in  society,  those  resources 
which  in  justice  should  be  appropriated  to  more  meritorious 
objects.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  character  of  the 
Thespian  tribe  is  not,  in  general,  formed  upon  the  most  ex- 
alted model  of  moral  purity ;  but  their  laxity  of  principle  and 
conduct  may,  I  am  persuaded,  be  traced  to  the  same  causes 
which  have  occasioned  the  deterioration  of  the  drama.  Were 
audiences  more  select,  did  they  exercise  a  more  fastidious 
and  discriminating  taste,  not  only  would  plays  be  more  pure 
and  their  representation  more  decorous,  but  the  improvement 
would  reach  even  the  personal  character  of  the  performers. 
Whatever  lends  dignity  to  the  histrionic  profession  must 
assuredly  tend  to  elevate  the  character  of  those  who  embrace 
it ;  and  when  theatrical  exhibitions  are  recognized  among  the 
legitimate  vehicles  of  moral  instruction,  the  actor,  no  longer 
a  degraded  minister  to  the  diversion  of  the  vulgar,  the  frivol- 
ous and  the  dissolute,  might  justly  aspire  to  a  place  among 
those  who  labor  to  promote  the  best  interests  of  mankind. 
The  calling  of  an  actor  would  then  be  deemed  useful  and  re- 
spectable, and  men  of  real  worth  might  engage  in  it  without 
the  fear  of  disgrace.  The  vacancies  in  our  dramatic  corps 
would  be  recruited,  not  from  the  dregs  of  society,  from  out- 


APPENDIX.  433 

casts  driven  to  the  stage  as  a  last  resource  against  penury,  but 
from  men  of  talents  and  education,  who  would  not  disdain 
a  pursuit  which,  while  it  afforded  the  means  of  honorable 
support,  might  become  a  powerful  instrument  for  the  moral 
reformation  of  society. 

Admitting,  however,  that  actors,  from  the  very  nature  of 
their  occupation,  have  an  irreclaimable  proclivity  to  vice — 
which  is  the  most  unfavorable  view  of  the  case — it  does  not 
follow  that  the  character  of  the  performers  furnishes  a  suf- 
ficient reason  for  rejecting  dramatic  entertainments.  Let  the 
solidity  of  this  objection  be  tested  by  its  application  to  anal- 
ogous cases.  Are  not  those  concerned  in  the  exhibition  of 
other  public  shows  and  spectacles  exposed,  by  parity  of  reason, 
to  the  same  moral  contamination  ?  And  yet  who  scruples  to 
attend  the  concert  of  an  itinerant  musician  or  visit  a  mena- 
gerie of  wild  beasts,  not  to  mention  a  variety  of  other  diver- 
sions ?  In  such  cases  does  any  man  inquire  what  is  the  moral 
conduct  of  those  who  pocket  his  money?  But  if,  indeed, 
there  be  any  propriety  in  avoiding  the  theatre  because  players 
are  not  distinguished  for  sobriety  of  deportment,  it  is  palpable 
that  the  principle  must  reach  much  further.  Pursuing  this 
idea  through  all  its  bearings  on  the  relations  of  life,  it  would 
require  that  we  should  countenance  no  profession  having  a 
tendency,  real  or  supposed,  to  weaken  our  moral  and  religious 
principles;  that  we  should  purchase  nothing  of  any  man  with- 
out inquiry  into  his  character  and  the  character  of  those  by 
whom  the  article  was  fabricated;  that,  like  douce  Davie 
Deans,  we  should  employ  neither  physician  nor  lawyer  with- 
out previously  ascertaining  the  orthodoxy  of  his  faith  and  the 
rectitude  of  his  practice.  For  if  it  be  wrong  to  patronjze 
players  because  they  are  a  wicked  and  perverse  generation, 
on  the  same  ground  it  must  be  equally  reprehensible  to  swell 
by  our  encouragement  the  gains  of  a  merchant  or  manufac- 
turer whose  conduct  is  open  to  exception.  Some  very  worthy 
people  are  fully  persuaded  that  the  practice  of  law  is  calcu- 
lated to  unsettle  the  religious  belief  and  pervert  the  moral 
perceptions  of  its  professors.  Must  lawyers,  therefore,  be  put 
under  the  ban  and  driven  like  lepers  from  the  bosom  of  so- 
37  2C 


434  APPENDIX. 

ciety  ?  Again :  it  is  confidently  believed  by  many  that  the 
business  of  retailing  merchandise  has  a  demoralizing  effect 
upon  the  characters  of  men,  because  it  presents  such  frequent 
temptations  to  petty  fraud  and  deception.  Must  a  similar 
interdict,  therefore,  be  proclaimed  against  merchants?  Or 
is  any  man  so  circumspect  or  scrupulous  as  to  reject  this  use- 
ful and  profitable  calling  lest  his  moral  principles  should  be 
corrupted  ?  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  occupation,  above  all 
others,  which  in  this  country  of  trade  and  commerce  is  em- 
braced with  equal  eagerness  by  saint  and  sinner  as  the  cer- 
tain avenue  to  wealth  and  consequence.  But  it  were  endless 
to  enumerate  the  absurdities  necessarily  involved  in  the  prac- 
tical application  of  such  a  principle.  No  man  could  of  would 
act  upon  it  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  or  business  of  life,  be- 
cause it  would  disturb  the  current  of  human  affairs  with  an 
eternal  and  unnatural  warfare,  and  eventually  dissolve  the  very 
elements  of  society.  But  the  advocates  of  this  principle  may 
allege  that  an  obvious  distinction  exists  between  pursuits  es- 
sential to  our  comfort  and  subsistence  and  those  that  conduce 
merely  to  our  amusement.  If  there  be  an  indispensable  ne- 
cessity to  patronize  the  undeserving,  there  would  be  some 
force  in  such  an  idea,  but  are  there  not  many  cases  in  which 
no  such  necessity  can  be  pretended  ?  Among  a  multitude  of 
instances  take  the  example  of  a  worthless  mechanic.  What 
compels  us  to  employ  him  in  preference  to  one  of  less  skill 
but  of  more  blameless  deportment?  And  yet  in  that  case  no 
one  hesitates  when  it  suits  his  interest  or  convenience  to 
bestow  his  patronage  on  the  least  meritorious.  Indeed,  the 
distinction  referred  to  is  never  recognized  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness, and  rarely  in  matters  of  mere  amusement.  Who  ever 
objected  to  the  purchase  of  Hume's  history  because  the  writer 
was  an  infidel?  If  Walter  Scott  and  Washington  Irving  were 
notorious  sceptics  or  men  of  profligate  character,  is  there  any 
principle  of  ethics  or  religion  that  forbids  the  purchase  of 
their  writings,  supposing  them  to  be  in  other  respects  unex- 
ceptionable? No  one,  I  am  sure,  would  maintain  the  affir- 
mative of  such  a  proposition ;  yet  in  the  case  stated  our 
countenance  and  support  would  be  given  to  men  whose  con- 


APPENDIX.  435 

duct  and  principles  we  did  not  approve,  not  from  the  com- 
pulsion of  an  overruling  necessity,  but  simply  as  a  matter  of 
personal  gratification. 

But  it  is  insisted  that  the  money  bestowed  on  the  diversions 
of  the  theatre  might  be  more  usefully,  and  therefore  more 
commendably,  employed.  So,  indeed,  might  every  expendi- 
ture devoted  to  the  purchase  of  innocent  pleasure.  And  will 
it  be  argued  that  every  application  of  money  not  of  absolute 
necessity  or  utility  is  criminal  ?  If  we  dedicate  a  portion  of 
our  resources  to  the  promotion  of  literature  and  the  fine  arts, 
not  to  speak  of  various  other  indulgences  not  forbidden  by 
the  most  rigid,  are  we  to  be  condemned  as  selfish  and  ex- 
travagant because  they  might  have  been  applied  to  more  im- 
portant purposes?  As  well  might  it  be  said  that  we  should 
clothe  ourselves  in  the  coarsest  apparel  and  subsist  on  the 
rudest  fare  because  the  money  lavished  on  costly  garments 
and  comfortable  living  might  have  been  better  expended  in 
the  relief  of  the  poor  or  the  advancement  of  some  religious 
undertaking.  Were  such  a  self-denying  principle  adopted  in 
practice,  all  the  elegancies  and  superfluities  of  life  must  be 
abandoned,  and  we  should  exhibit  the  singular  spectacle  of 
surrendering  at  this  advanced  stage  of  society  all  the  benefits 
of  civilization. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  do  not  justify  that 
exclusive  selfishness  which  absorbs  everything  in  the  vortex 
of  its  own  gratification,  nor  leaves  a  peculium  to  bestow 
on  the  great  enterprises  of  philanthropy.  But  the  guilt 
in  all  such  cases  consists  in  the  inordinate  indulgence,  and 
it  is  a  maxim  undeniably  true  that  pleasure  should  always 
yield  to  the  demands  of  duty.  But,  subject  to  this  limitation 
and  the  obligations  of  temperance,  it  is  clear  to  my  under- 
standing that  Providence  designed  us  to  partake  of  every  en- 
joyment not  absolutely  criminal  in  its  nature.  So  far  as  this 
discussion  is  concerned,  the  true  question  seems  to  be  whether 
any  principle  of  morality  or  religion  forbids  dramatic  repre- 
sentations in  the  abstract  as  sinful  and  demoralizing ;  for  if 
there  be  no  such  principle,  it  is-  just  as  venial  to  appropriate, 
within  reasonable  limits,  our  means  to  that  recreation,  when 


436  APPENDIX. 

properly  regulated,  as  to  any  other  gratification  admitted  to 
be  innocent. 

The  uncompromising  hostility  of  the  religious  world  to  the 
theatre  would  have  some  definite  object  if  its  total  suppression 
were  an  achievement  within  the  range  of  probability ;  but  such 
an  enterprise  is  rendered  utterly  hopeless  when  we  consider 
the  innate  love  of  mankind  for  public  spectacles  and  the  mul- 
titude remaining  unconnected  with  the  Christian  churches. 
Indeed,  were  it  practicable,  I  question  whether  success  would 
fulfil  the  wishes  of  its  most  zealous  promoters — whether,  in 
truth,  the  evil  designed  to  be  eradicated  would  not  be  repro- 
duced in  a  form  more  deleterious  than  its  original  prototype. 
If  the  annals  of  history  be  consulted,  it  will  be  found  that 
some  species  of  public  exhibition  has  been  popular  and  preva- 
lent among  all  nations,  ancient  and  modern,  barbarous  and 
refined.  The  propensity  for  such  amusements  must  therefore  be 
deeply  seated  in  human  nature ;  and  the  question  is  whether 
this  natural  craving  for  shows  and  spectacles  will  not  be  grati- 
fied in  some  shape  in  despite  of  all  opposition.  If  the  drama 
be  prohibited,  is  there  not  danger  that  some  diversion  more 
pernicious  in  its  tendency  will  usurp  its  place  ?  Such  an  ap- 
prehension, authorized  as  it  is  by  the  original  propensities  of 
mankind,  derives  additional  strength  from  our  actual  experi- 
ence. With  what  insatiable  eagerness  of  curiosity  do  the 
people  of  this  country  throng  to  the  circus,  the  menagerie, 
and  every  sort  of  public  spectacle !  In  these  favorite  pastimes 
there  is  nothing  to  refine  the  taste,  to  inform  the  understand- 
ing, to  move  the  affections,  to  improve  the  heart.  All  the 
evils  imputed  to  the  theatre  appear  there  in  an  aggravated 
form,  with  none  of  its  redeeming  advantages,  and  when  they 
shall  have  thoroughly  debased  the  public  mind  the  transition 
will  be  easy  to  the  more  cruel  sports  of  our  ancestors.  Shall 
we  be  much  benefited  by  the  substitution  of  such  vulgar  shows 
as  these  for  the  more  intellectual  diversions  of  the  playhouse  ? 
We  must  take  man  as  he  is,  and  since  we  cannot  change  his 
nature,  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  to  use  all  the  means  within  our 
reach  to  cultivate  and  refine  it. 

In  a  political  no  less  than  a  moral  point  of  view  the  charac- 


APPENDIX.  437 

ter  and  tendency  of  public  spectacles  is  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance to  the  community.  It  was  shrewdly  remarked  by  Fletcher 
of  Saltoun  that  had  he  the  composition  of  its  popular  songs 
and  ballads  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  moulding  to  his 
wishes  the  feelings  and  opinions  of  any  nation ;  but,  potent 
as  these  are  in  forming  the  popular  character,  they  are  scarcely 
more  influential  than  public  shows  and  amusements.  And, 
indeed,  the  latter  have  been  deemed  in  some  countries  of  such 
vital  consequence  to  the  well-being  of  the  community  that 
they  have  been  made  the  subject  of  legislative  regulation.  An 
interference  with  such  matters  by  the  government,  other  than 
to  maintain  good  order  and  to  punish  flagrant  outrages  on 
decency  and  morals,  would  be  repugnant  to  the  genius  of  our 
institutions;  and  therefore  no  remedy  remains  to  us  for  the 
multiplied  abuses  to  which  such  exhibitions  are  liable  but  the 
corrective  of  an  enlightened  public  opinion.  Theatres,  then, 
will  continue  to  exist,  but  whether  for  good  or  evil  depends 
upon  the  character  of  those  by  whom  their  action  will  be  con- 
trolled. If  left  to  the  exclusive  government  of  bad  men  and 
an  undiscerning  populace,  they  will  surely  degenerate  into  the 
nurseries  of  vice,  the  organized  seminaries  of  licentiousness, 
infidelity,  sedition,  and  violence.  Is  it  not  of  the  utmost  con- 
sequence to  the  peace  of  society,  to  the  permanence  of  our 
political  institutions,  to  the  interests  of  morality  and  religion, 
that  these  pestilential  consequences  should  be  averted  ?  I  call 
upon  all  good  men,  and  more  especially  I  invoke  the  religious 
community,  to  interpose  a  barrier  to  the  advent  of  these  wide- 
spreading  evils.  If  they  will  take  a  prominent  part  in  the 
applause  and  censure  which  determine  the  course  and  manner 
of  dramatic  exhibitions,  the  stage  will  become — what  it  was 
intended  to  be  in  its  original  institution — the  fast  friend  and 
faithful  ally  of  virtue.  There  was  a  time  when  men  distin- 
guished for  the  strictness  of  their  morals  and  their  zeal  in  the 
cause  of  religion  esteemed  it  no  crime  to  witness  theatrical 
entertainments — when  Addison,  Johnson,  Moore,  and  a  host 
of  literary  worthies  sustained  the  cause  of  the  drama  both  by 
their  countenance  and  writings.  The  authority  of  great  names, 
I  acknowledge,  should  not  overrule  the  convictions  of  reason, 
37* 


438  APPENDIX. 

but  surely  a  diversion  sanctioned  by  such  persons  as  these  can- 
not be  altogether  unworthy  the  care  of  the  wise  and  good. 

But  the  reformation  of  the  theatre  involves  other  considera- 
tions of  great  and  vital  importance.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only 
school  where  a  numerous  class  of  people  can  imbibe  refined 
sentiments  or  correct  ideas  of  literary  composition.  The 
bulk  of  those  who  frequent  the  playhouse  at  the  present  day 
are  composed  of  unlettered,  unpolished  men,  and  the  drama 
has  consequently  assumed  a  tone  and  character  adapted  to 
their  coarse  and  vulgar  perceptions.  Hence  it  is,  as  has  been 
already  remarked,  that  broad  farce  and  low  comedy  have  pre- 
dominated on  the  modern  stage — that  grimace  and  buffoonery 
command  louder  applause  than  the  most  striking  efforts  of  the 
histrionic  art ;  and  this  degraded  condition  of  the  drama, 
reacting  on  the  audience,  has  tended  still  further  to  vitiate  the 
public  taste.  Did  men  of  cultivated  minds  and  a  nice  sense 
of  propriety  constitute  the  larger  portion  of  such  assemblies, 
this  miserable  trash  would  be  no  longer  tolerated,  and  the 
representation  of  the  standard  works  of  genius  would  soon 
beget  among  the  more  ignorant  spectators  greater  delicacy  of 
sentiment  and  juster  notions  of  literary  merit.  In  ancient 
times  the  populace  of  Athens  were  remarkable  for  their  acute- 
ness  and  discrimination,  because  both  in  their  public  spectacles 
and  assemblies  their  taste  was  chastened  and  purified  by  the 
finest  specimens  of  poetry  and  eloquence  that  the  world  has 
ever  witnessed.  It  was  not  that  the  Athenians  were  more 
enlightened  than  their  Grecian  contemporaries,  or  that  they 
derived  their  pre-eminence  in  literature  and  the  fine  arts  from 
any  peculiarity  of  physical  organization.  So  far  as  the  diffu- 
sion of  knowledge  is  concerned,  they  were  far  inferior  to  the 
people  of  Europe  and  America.  Their  acute  perception  of  the 
beauties  of  style  and  proprieties  of  conduct  was  not  an  innate 
endowment,  nor  yet  an  indication  of  uncommon  intellectual 
development,  but  sprang  from  the  constant  cultivation  of  their 
taste  by  the  efforts  of  those  great  orators  and  philosophers 
whose  genius  shed  such  splendor  on  the  history  of  that  re- 
public. What  a  contrast  to  the  Athenian  people  is  presented 
by  the  rude  and  ferocious  rabble  of  Rome,  who  took  far  less 


APPENDIX.  439 

interest  in  the  debates  of  the  Forum  and  the  Senate  than  in 
the  cruel  and  brutalizing  exhibitions  of  the  amphitheatre  ! 
It  is  evident,  then,  that  public  diversions  are  a  most  import- 
ant element  in  the  formation  of  national  taste  and  character ; 
and  this  importance  is  still  further  enhanced  by  the  intimate 
connection  subsisting  between  mental  and  moral  cultivation. 
Among  these  diversions  the  theatre  is  almost  the  only  one 
which  furnishes  entertainment  to  all  classes,  and  which  from 
its  nature  can  be  made  subservient  to  the  literary  improvement 
'of  the  uneducated  part  of  society.  I  conclude,  therefore,  that 
morals,  politics,  and  literature  are  alike  interested  in  the  res- 
toration of  the  drama  to  its  primitive  purity,  and  that  while 
the  pious  and  enlightened  remain  either  hostile  or  indifferent 
to  this  great  enterprise  it  can  never  be  successfully  prosecuted. 

D. 

II. 

THE  following  matter,  selected  from  an  old-time  London 
publication,  will  afford  the  reader  an  insight  into  the  fluctu- 
ating condition  of  theatrical  affairs  previous  to  the  advent 
of  David  Garrick : 

At  a  time  when  many  theatres  were  employed  to  divert 
the  public,  and  when  none  of  them  were  in  a  flourishing 
state,  the  imprudence  and  extravagance  of  a  gentleman  who 
possessed  genius,  wit,  and  humor  in  a  high  degree  obliged 
him  to  strike  out  a  new  species  of  entertainment,  which  in 
the  end  produced  an  extraordinary  change  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  dramatic  system.  To  extricate  himself  out  of 
difficulties  in  which  he  was  involved,  and  probably  to  re- 
venge some  indignities  which  had  been  thrown  upon  him  by 
people  in  power,  that  admirable  painter  and  accurate  ob- 
server of  life,  the  late  Henry  Fielding,  determined  to  amuse 
the  town  at  the  expense  of  some  persons  in  high  rank  and 
of  great  influence  in  the  political  world.  For  this  purpose 
he  got  together  a  company  of  performers,  who  exhibited  at 
the  theatre  in  the  Haymarket  under  the  whimsical  title  of 


440  APPENDIX. 

"The  Great  Mogul's  Company  of  Comedians."  The  piece 
he  represented  was  Pasqutn,  which  was  acted  to  crowded 
audiences  for  fifty  successive  nights.  Encouraged  by  the 
favorable  reception  this  performance  met  with,  he  deter- 
mined to  continue  at  the  same  place  the  next  season,  when 
he  produced  several  new  plays,  some  of  which  were  applaud- 
ed and  the  rest  condemned.  As  soon  as  the  novelty  of  the 
design  was  over  a  visible  difference  appeared  between  the 
audiences  of  the  two  years.  The  company,  which,  as  the 
play-bills  said,  dropped  from  the  clouds,  was  disbanded,  and 
the  manager,  not  having  attended  to  the  voice  of  economy  in 
his  prosperity,  was  left  no  richer  nor  more  independent  than 
when  he  first  engaged  in  the  project. 

The  seventy  of  Mr.  Fielding's  satire  in  these  pieces  had 
galled  the  minister  to  that  degree  that  the  impression  was 
not  erased  from  his  mind  when  the  cause  of  it  had  lost  all 
effect.  He  meditated,  therefore,  a  severe  revenge  on  the 
stage,  and  determined  to  prevent  any  attacks  of  the  like  kind 
for  the  future.  In  the  execution  of  this  plan  he  steadily  per- 
sisted, and  at  last  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  enemy 
which  had  given  him  so  much  uneasiness  effectually  restrain- 
ed from  any  power  of  annoying  him  in  the  public  theatres. 
An  act  of  Parliament,  passed  in  the  year  1737,  forbade  the 
representation  of  any  performance  not  previously  licensed 
by  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  or  in  any  place,  except  the  city 
of  Westminster  and  the  liberties  thereof,  where  the  royal  fam- 
ily should  at  any  time  reside.  It  also  took  from  the  Crown 
the  power  of  licensing  any  more  theatres,  and  inflicted  heavy 
penalties  on  those  who  should  hereafter  perform  in  defiance 
of  the  regulations  in  the  statute.  This  unpopular  act  did  not 
pass  without  opposition.  It  called  forth  the  eloquence  of 
Lord  Chatham  in  a  speech  wherein  all  the  arguments  in 
favor  of  this  obnoxious  law  were  answered,  the  dangers  which 
might  ensue  from  it  were  pointed  out,  and  the  little  neces- 
sity for  such  hostilities  against  the  stage  clearly  demonstrated. 
It  also  excited  an  alarm  in  the  people  at  large,  as  tending  to 
introduce  restraints  on  the  liberty  of  the  press.  Many  pamph- 
lets were  published  against  the  principle  of  the  act,  and  it 


APPENDIX.  441 

was  combated  in  every  shape  which  wit,  ridicule,  or  argu- 
ment could  oppose  it  in.  All  these,  however,  availed  noth- 
ing; the  minister  had  resolved,  and  the  Parliament  was  too 
compliant  to  slight  a  bill  which  came  recommended  from  so 
powerful  a  quarter.  It  therefore  passed  into  a  law,  and  freed 
the  then  and  all  future  ministers  from  any  apprehension  of 
mischief  from  the  wit  or  malice  of  dramatic  writers. 

THE   EARL   OF   CHATHAM'S   SPEECH 

Against  the  Bill  entitled  "An  Act  made  to  Explain  and  Amend  so  much 
of  an  Act  made  in  the  Twelfth  Year  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Anne,  entitled 
'An  Act  for  Reducing  the  Laws  relating  to  Rogues,  etc.]  as  relates  to 
common  Players  of  Interludes" 

MY  LORDS  :  The  bill  now  before  you  I  apprehend  to  be 
of  a  very  extraordinary,  a  very  dangerous,  nature.  It  seems 
designed  not  only  as  a  restraint  to  the  licentiousness  of  the 
stage,  but  it  will  prove  a  most  arbitrary  restraint  on  the  lib- 
erty of  the  stage ;  and  I  fear  it  looks  yet  further.  I  fear  it 
tends  toward  a  restraint  on  the  liberty  of  the  press,  which 
will  be  a  long  stride  toward  the  destruction  of  liberty  itself. 
It  is  not  only  a  bill,  my  Lords,  of  a  very  extraordinary  na- 
ture, but  has  been  brought  in  at  a  very  extraordinary  season 
and  pushed  with  most  extraordinary  despatch.  When  I  con- 
sidered how  near  it  was  to  the  end  of  the  session,  and  how 
long  this  session  had  been  protracted  beyond  the  usual  time 
of  the  year — when  I  considered  that  this  bill  passed  through 
the  other  House  with  so  much  precipitancy  as  even  to  get 
the  start  of  a  bill  which  deserved  all  the  respect  and  all  the 
despatch  the  forms  of  either  House  of  Parliament  could  ad- 
mit of — it  set  me  upon  inquiring  what  could  be  the  reason  of 
introducing  this  bill  at  so  unseasonable  a  time  and  pressing 
it  forward  in  a  manner  so  very  singular  and  uncommon.  I 
have  made  all  possible  inquiry,  and  as  yet,  I  must  confess,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  find  out  the  great  occasion.  I  have,  'tis  true, 
learned  from  common  report  without-doors  that  a  most  sedi- 
tious, a  most  heinous,  farce  had  been  offered  to  one  of  the 
theatres — a  farce  for  which  the  authors  ought  to  be  punished 


442  APPENDIX. 

in  a  most  exemplary  manner.  But  what  was  the  consequence  ? 
The  master  of  that  theatre  behaved  as  he  was  in  duty  bound 
and  as  common  prudence  directed  :  he  not  only  refused  to 
bring  it  upon  the  stage,  but  carried  it  to  a  certain  honorable 
gentleman  in  the  administration  as  the  surest  method  of  hav- 
ing it  suppressed.  Could  this  be  the  occasion  of  introducing 
such  an  extraordinary  bill,  at  such  an  extraordinary  season, 
and  pushing  it  in  so  extraordinary  a  manner?  Surely  no: 
the  dutiful  behavior  of  the  players,  the  prudent  caution  they 
showed  upon  that  occasion,  can  never  be  a  reason  for  subject- 
ing them  to  such  an  arbitrary  restraint.  It  is  an  argument  in 
their  favor,  and  a  material  one,  in  my  opinion,  against  the 
bill.  Nay,  further,  if  we  consider  all  the  circumstances,  it  is, 
to  me,  a  full  proof  that  the  laws  now  in  being  are  sufficient  for 
punishing  those  players  who  shall  venture  to  bring  any  sedi- 
tious libel  upon  the  stage,  and  consequently  sufficient  for  de- 
terring all  players  from  acting  anything  that  may  have  the 
least  tendency  toward  giving  a  reasonable  offence.  I  do  not, 
my  Lords,  pretend  to  be  a  lawyer — I  do  not  pretend  to  know 
perfectly  the  power  and  extent  of  our  laws,  but  I  have  con- 
versed with  those  who  do,  and  by  them  I  have  been  told  that 
our  laws  are  sufficient  for  punishing  any  person  that  shall  dare 
to  represent  upon  the  stage  what  may  appear,  either  by  the 
words  or  representation,  to  be  blasphemous,  seditious,  or  im- 
moral. I  must  own,  indeed,  I  have  observed  of  late  a  remark- 
able licentiousness  in  the  stage.  There  have  but  very  lately 
been  two  plays  acted  which,  one  would  have  thought,  should 
have  given  the  greatest  offence,  and  yet  both  were  suffered  to 
be  often  represented  without  disturbance,  without  censure.* 
In  one  the  author  thought  fit  to  represent  the  three  great  pro- 

*  The  late  H.  Fielding,  Esq.,  whose  licentiousness  as  an  author  chiefly 
contributed  toward  drawing  on  the  resentment  of  a  minister,  and  thereby 
occasioned  the  heavy  hand  of  power  to  fall  on  the  stage  in  general,  where- 
by the  innocent  suffered  with  the  guilty, — this  same  gentleman,  as  a  mag- 
istrate, with  specious  and  fallacious  arguments  (stolen  from  Mandeville  and 
others)  has  occasioned  some  laws  to  be  made  which  give  such  unlimited 
power  to  justices  of  the  peace  as  may,  by  degrees,  prove  the  entire  de- 
struction of  our  once-boasted  liberty  and  lay  the  foundation  of  the  most 
tyrannic  and  arbitrary  power. 


APPENDIX.  443 

fessions,  religion,  physic,  and  the  law,  as  inconsistent  with  com- 
mon sense;  in  the  other,  a  most  tragical  story  was  brought 
upon  the  stage,  a  catastrophe  too  recent,  too  melancholy,  and 
of  too  solemn  a  nature  to  be  heard  of  anywhere  but  from  the 
pulpit.  How  these  pieces  came  to  pass  unpunished  I  do  not 
know.  If  I  am  rightly  informed,  it  was  not  for  want  of  law, 
but  for  want  of  prosecution,  without  which  no  law  can  be 
made  effectual.  But  if  there  was  any  neglect  in  this  case,  I 
am  not  convinced  it  was  not  with  a  design  to  prepare  the 
minds  of  the  people,  and  to  make  them  think  a  new  law 
necessary. 

Our  stage  ought  certainly,  my  Lords,  to  be  kept  within  due 
bounds,  but  for  this  our  laws,  as  they  stand  at  present,  are 
sufficient.  If  our  stage-players  at  any  time  exceed  those 
bounds,  they  ought  to  be  prosecuted — they  may  be  punish- 
ed. We  have  precedents,  we  have  examples,  of  persons  hav- 
ing been  punished  for  things  less  criminal  than  either  of  the 
two  pieces  I  have  just  mentioned. 

A  new  law  must  therefore  be  unnecessary,  and  in  the  pres- 
ent case  it  cannot  be  unnecessary  without  being  dangerous. 
Every  unnecessary  restraint  on  licentiousness  is  a  fetter  upon 
the  legs,  is  a  shackle  upon  the  hands,  of  liberty.  One  of  the 
greatest  blessings  we  enjoy — one  of  the  greatest  blessings  a 
people,  my  Lords,  can  enjoy — is  liberty ;  but  every  good  in 
this  life  has  its  alloy  of  evil.  Licentiousness  is  the  alloy  of 
liberty:  it  is  an  ebullition,  an  excrescence — it  is  a  speck  upon 
the  eye  of  the  political  body,  which  I  can  never  touch  but 
with  a  gentle,  with  a  trembling  hand,  lest  I  destroy  the  body, 
lest  I  injure  the  eye  upon  which  it  is  apt  to  appear.  If  the 
stage  becomes  at  any  time  licentious,  if  a  play  appears  to  be 
a  libel  upon  the  government  or  upon  any  particular  man,  the 
king's  courts  are  open,  the  law  is  sufficient  for  punishing  the 
offender ;  and  in  this  case  the  person  injured  has  a  singular 
advantage  :  he  can  be  under  no  difficulty  to  prove  who  is  the 
publisher.  The  players  themselves  are  the  publishers,  and 
there  can  be  no  want  of  evidence  to  convict  them. 

But,  my  Lords,  suppose  it  true  that  the  laws  now  in  being 
are  not  sufficient  for  putting  a  check  to,  or  preventing,  the 


444  APPENDIX. 

licentiousness  of  the  stage;  suppose  it  absolutely  necessary 
some  new  law  should  be  made  for  that  purpose ;  yet  it  must 
be  granted  that  such  a  law  ought  to  be  maturely  considered, 
and  every  clause,  every  sentence — nay,  every  word — of  it 
well  weighed  and  examined,  lest,  under  some  of  those  meth- 
ods presumed  or  pretended  to  be  necessary  for  restraining 
licentiousness  a  power  should  lie  concealed  which  might 
afterward  be  made  use  of  for  giving  a  dangerous  wound  to 
liberty.  Such  a  law  ought  not  to  be  introduced  at  the  close 
of  a  session,  nor  ought  we,  in  the  passing  of  such  a  law,  de- 
part from  any  of  the  forms  prescribed  by  our  ancestors  for 
preventing  deceit  and  surprise. 

There  is  such  a  connection  between  licentiousness  and  lib- 
erty that  it  is  not  easy  to  correct  the  one  without  dangerously 
wounding  the  other.  It  is  extremely  hard  to  distinguish  the 
true  limit  between  them.  Like  a  changeable  silk,  we  can 
easily  see  there  are  two  different  colors,  but  we  cannot  easily 
discover  where  the  one  ends  or  where  the  other  begins.  There 
can  be  no  great  and  immediate  danger  from  the  licentiousness 
of  the  stage.  I  hope  it  will  not  be  pretended  that  our  govern- 
ment may  before  next  winter  be  overturned  by  such  licen- 
tiousness, even  though  our  stage  were  at  present  under  no 
sort  of  legal  control.  Why,  then,  may  we  not  delay  till  next 
session  passing  any  law  against  the  licentiousness  of  the  stage  ? 
Neither  our  government  can  be  altered  nor  our  constitution 
overturned  by  such  a  delay ;  but  by  passing  a  law  rashly  and 
unadvisedly  our  constitution  may  at  once  be  destroyed  and 
our  government  rendered  arbitrary.  Can  we,  then,  put  a 
small,  a  short-lived,  inconvenience  in  the  balance  with  per- 
petual slavery?  Can  it  be  supposed  that  a  Parliament  of 
Great  Britain  will  so  much  as  risk  the  latter  for  the  sake  of 
avoiding  the  former? 

Surely,  my  Lords,  this  is  not  to  be  expected  were  the  licen- 
tiousness of  the  stage  much  greater  than  it  is — were  the  insuf- 
ficiency of  our  laws  more  obvious  than  can  be  pretended. 
But  when  we  complain  of  the  licentiousness  of  the  stage  and 
the  insufficiency  of  our  laws,  I  fear  we  have  more  reason  to 
complain  of  bad  measures  in  our  polity  and  a  general  decay 


APPENDIX.  445 

of  virtue  and  morality  among  the  people.  In  public  as  well 
as  private  life  the  only  way  to  prevent  being  ridiculed  or  cen- 
sured is  to  avoid  all  ridiculous  or  wicked  measures,  and  to 
pursue  such  only  as  are  virtuous  or  worthy.  The  people  never 
endeavor  to  ridicule  those  they  love  and  esteem,  nor  will  they 
suffer  them  to  be  ridiculed :  if  any  one  attempts  it,  the  ridicule 
returns  upon  the  author ;  he  makes  himself  only  the  object  of 
public  hatred  and  contempt.  The  actions  or  behavior  of  a  pri- 
vate man  may  pass  unobserved,  and  consequently  unapplaud- 
ed,  uncensured,  but  the  actions  of  those  in  high  stations  can  pass 
neither  without  notice  nor  without  censure  or  applause ;  and 
therefore  an  administration  without  esteem,  without  authority 
among  the  people,  let  their  power  be  ever  so  great,  let  their 
power  be  ever  so  arbitrary,  they  will  be  ridiculed.  The  seve- 
rest edicts,  the  most  terrible  punishments,  cannot  entirely  pre- 
vent it.  If  any  man,  therefore,  thinks  he  has  been  censured 
upon  any  of  our  public  theatres,  let  him  examine  his  actions — 
he  will  find  the  cause  ;  let  him  alter  his  conduct — he  will  find 
a  remedy.  As  no  man  is  perfect,  as  no  man  is  infallible,  the 
greatest  may  err,  the  most  circumspect  may  be  guilty  of  some 
piece  of  ridiculous  behavior.  It  is  not  licentiousness,  it  is  a 
useful  liberty,  always  indulged  the  stage  in  a  free  country,  that 
some  great  men  may  there  meet  with  a  just  reproof  which  none 
of  their  friends  will  be  free  enough — or  rather  faithful  enough — 
to  give  them.  Of  this  we  have  a  famous  instance  in  the  Roman 
history.  The  great  Pompey,  after  the  many  victories  he  had 
obtained  and  the  great  conquests  he  had  made,  had  certainly  a 
good  title  to  the  esteem  of  the  people  of  Rome ;  yet  that  great 
man  by  some  error  in  his  conduct  became  an  object  of  general 
dislike  ;  and  therefore  in  the  representation  of  an  old  play,  when 
Diphilus  the  actor  came  to  repeat  these  words,  Nostra  miseria 
tu  es  magnus,  the  audience  immediately  applied  them  to  Pom- 
pey, who  at  that  time  was  as  well  known  by  the  name  "mag- 
nus  "  as  by  the  name  Pompey,  and  were  so  highly  pleased 
with  the  satire  that,  as  Cicero  says,  they  made  the  actor  by 
their  clamor  repeat  the  words  a  hundred  times  over.  An  ac- 
count of  this  was  immediately  sent  to  Pompey,  who,  instead 
of  resenting  it  as  an  injury,  was  so  wise  as  to  take  it  for  a  just 
38 


44^  APPENDIX. 

reproof.  He  examined  his  conduct,  he  altered  his  measures, 
he  regained  by  degrees  the  esteem  of  the  people,  and  then  he 
neither  feared  the  wit  nor  felt  the  satire  of  the  stage.  This 
is  an  example  which  ought  to  be  followed  by  great  men  in  all 
countries.  Such  accidents  will  often  happen  in  every  free 
country,  and  many  such  would  probably  have  afterward  hap- 
pened at  Rome  if  she  had  continued  to  enjoy  her  liberty. 
But  this  sort  of  liberty  in  the  stage  came  soon  after,  I  suppose, 
to  be  called  licentiousness ;  for  we  are  told  that  Augustus, 
after  having  established  his  empire,  restored  order  in  Rome  by 
restraining  licentiousness.  God  forbid  we  should  in  this  coun- 
try have  order  restored  or  licentiousness  restrained  at  so  dear 
a  rate  as  the  people  of  Rome  paid  for  it  to  Augustus ! 

In  the  case  I  have  mentioned,  my  Lords,  it  was  not  the 
poet  that  wrote  (for  it  was  an  old  play),  nor  the  players  that 
acted  (for  they  only  repeated  the  words  of  the  play),  it  was 
the  people,  who  pointed  the  satire ;  and  the  case  will  always 
be  the  same.  When  a  man  has  the  misfortune  to  incur  the 
hatred  and  contempt  of  a  people,  when  public  measures  are 
despised,  the  audience  will  apply  what  never  was,  what  could 
not  be,  designed  as  a  satire  on  the  present  times.  Nay,  even 
though  the  people  should  not  apply,  those  who  are  conscious  of 
guilt,  those  who  are  conscious  of  the  weakness  or  wickedness 
of  their  own  conduct,  will  take  to  themselves  what  the  author 
never  designed.  A  public  thief  is  apt  to  take  the  satire,  as  he 
is  apt  to  take  the  money,  which  was  never  designed  for  him. 
We  have  an  instance  of  this  in  the  case  of  a  comedian  of  the 
last  age — a  comedian  who  was  not  only  a  good  poet,  but  an 
honest  man  and  a  quiet  and  good  subject.  The  famous  Moliere, 
when  he  wrote  his  Tartuffe — which  is  certainly  an  excellent 
and  a  good  moral  comedy — did  not  design  to  satirize  any 
great  man  of  that  age ;  yet  a  great  man  in  France  at  that  time 
took  it  to  himself,  and  fancied  the  author  had  taken  him  as  a 
model  for  one  of  the  principal  and  one  of  the  worst  characters 
in  that  comedy.  By  good  luck,  he  was  not  the  licenser;  other- 
wise, the  kingdom  of  France  had  never  had  the  pleasure — the 
happiness,  I  may  say — of  seeing  that  play  acted  ;  but  when  the 
players  first  proposed  to  act  it  at  Paris  he  had  interest  enough 


APPENDIX.  447 

to  get  it  forbid.  Moliere,  who  knew  himself  innocent  of  what 
was  laid  to  his  charge,  complained  to  his  patron,  the  Prince 
of  Conti,  that,  as  his  play  was  designed  only  to  expose  hypoc- 
risy and  a  false  pretence  to  religion,  it  was  very  hard  it  should 
be  forbid  being  acted,  when  at  the  same  time  they  were  suf- 
fered to  expose  religion  itself  every  night  publicly  upon  the 
Italian  stage;  to  which  the  prince  wittily  answered,  " 'Tis 
true,  Moliere  :  Harlequin  ridicules  Heaven  and  exposes  relig- 
ion ;  but  you  have  done  much  worse — you  have  ridiculed  the 
first  minister  of  religion." 

I  am  as  much  for  restraining  the  licentiousness  of  the  stage, 
and  every  other  sort  of  licentiousness,  as  any  of  your  Lord- 
ships can  be ;  but,  my  Lords,  I  am,  I  shall  always  be,  ex- 
tremely cautious  and  fearful  of  making  the  least  encroachment 
upon  liberty  ;  and  therefore,  when  a  new  law  is  proposed 
against  licentiousness,  I  shall  always  be  for  considering  it 
maturely  and  deliberately  before  I  venture  to  give  my  consent 
to  its  being  passed.  This  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  my  being 
against  passing  this  bill  at  so  unseasonable  a  time  and  in  so 
extraordinary  a  manner ;  but  I  have  many  reasons  for  being 
against  passing  the  bill  itself,  some  of  which  I  shall  beg  leave 
to  explain  to  your  Lordships.  The  bill,  my  Lords,  at  first 
view  may  seem  to  be  designed  only  against  the  stage,  but  to 
me  it  plainly  appears  to  point  somewhere  else.  It  is  an  arrow 
that  does  but  glance  at  the  stage ;  the  mortal  wound  seems 
designed  against  the  liberty  of  the  press.  By  this  bill  you 
prevent  a  play  being  acted,  but  you  do  not  prevent  its  being 
printed  ;  therefore,  if  a  license  should  be  refused  for  its  being 
acted,  we  may  depend  on  it  the  play  will  be  printed.  It  will 
be  printed  and  published,  my  Lords,  with  the  refusal  in  capi- 
tal letters  on  the  title-page.  People  are  always  fond  of  what's 
forbidden.  Libri  prohibiti  are  in  all  countries  diligently  and 
generally  sought  after.  It  will  be  much  easier  to  procure  a 
refusal  than  it  ever  was  to  procure  a  good  house  or  a  good  sale; 
therefore  we  may  expect  that  plays  will  be  written  on  purpose 
to  have  a  refusal ;  this  will  certainly  procure  a  good  sale. 
Thus  will  satires  be  spread  and  dispersed  through  the  whole 
nation,  and  thus  every  man  in  the  kingdom  may — and  prob- 


APPENDIX. 

ably  will — read  for  sixpence  what  a  few  only  could  have  seen 
acted,  and  that  not  under  the  expense  of  half  a  crown.  We 
shall  then  be  told,  "What !  will  you  allow  an  infamous  libel 
to  be  printed  and  dispersed  which  you  would  not  allow  to  be 
acted  ?  You  have  agreed  to  a  law  for  preventing  its  being 
acted ;  can  you  refuse  your  assent  to  a  law  for  preventing  its 
being  printed  and  published?"  I  should  really,  my  Lords, 
be  glad  to  hear  what  excuse,  what  reason,  one  could  give  for 
being  against  the  latter  after  having  agreed  to  the  former,  for 
I  protest  I  cannot  suggest  the  least  shadow  for  an  excuse.  If 
we  agree  to  the  bill  now  before  us  we  must — perhaps  next  ses- 
sion— agree  to  a  bill  for  preventing  any  plays  being  printed 
without  a  license.  Thus,  my  Lords,  from  the  precedent  now 
before  us  we  shall  be  induced — nay,  we  can  find  no  reason  for 
refusing — to  lay  the  press  under  general  license,  and  then  we 
may  bid  adieu  to  the  liberties  of  Great  Britain. 

But  suppose,  my  Lords,  it  were  necessary  to  make  a  new 
law  for  restraining  the  licentiousness  of  the  stage — which  I  am 
very  far  from  granting — yet  I  shall  never  be  for  establishing 
such  a  power  as  is  proposed  by  this  bill.  If  poets  and  players 
are  to  be  restrained,  as  other  subjects  are,  by  the  known  laws 
of  their  country — if  they  offend,  let  them  be  tried,  as  every 
Englishman  ought  to  be,  by  God  and  their  country.  Do  not 
let  us  subject  them  to  the  arbitrary  will  and  pleasure  of  any 
one  man.  A  power  lodged  in  the  hands  of  one  single  man  to 
judge  and  determine  without  limitation,  without  any  control 
or  appeal,  is  a  sort  of  power  unknown  to  our  laws,  inconsist- 
ent with  our  constitution ;  it  is  a  higher,  a  more  absolute 
power  than  we  trust  even  to  the  king  himself;  and  therefore 
I  must  think  we  ought  not  to  vest  any  such  power  in  His  Ma- 
jesty's Lord  Chamberlain.  When  I  say  this,  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  mean  to  give  the  least,  the  most  distant,  offence  to  the 
noble  duke  who  now  fills  the  post  of  Lord  Chamberlain ;  his 
natural  candor  and  love  of  justice  would  not,  I  know,  permit 
him  to  exercise  any  power  but  with  the  strictest  regard  to  the 
rules  of  justice  and  humanity.  Were  we  sure  his  successors 
in  high  office  would  always  be  persons  of  such  distinguished 
merit,  even  the  power  to  be  established  by  this  bill  could  give 


APPENDIX,  449 

me  no  further  alarm  than  lest  it  should  be  made  a  precedent 
for  introducing  other  new  powers  of  the  same  nature.  This, 
indeed,  is  an  alarm  which  cannot  be  prevented  by  any  hope, 
by  any  consideration ;  it  is  an  alarm  which,  I  think,  every 
man  must  take  who  has  a  due  regard  to  the  constitution  and 
liberties  of  his  country. 

I  shall  admit,  my  Lords,  that  the  stage  ought  not,  upon  any 
occasion,  to  meddle  with  politics ;  and  for  this  very  reason, 
among  the  rest.  I  arn  against  the  bill  now  before  us.  This  bill 
will  be  so  far  from  preventing  the  stage's  meddling  with  poli- 
tics that  I  fear  it  will  be  the  occasion  of  meddling  with  noth- 
ing else  ;  but  then  it  will  be  a  political  stage  ex parte.  It  will 
be  made  subservient  to  the  politics  and  schemes  of  the  court 
only.  The  licentiousness  of  the  stage  will  be  encouraged  in- 
stead of  being  restrained ;  but,  like  court  journalists,  it  would 
be  licentious  only  against  the  patrons  of  liberty  and  the  pro- 
tectors of  the  people.  Whatever  man,  whatever  party,  opposes 
the  court  in  any  of  their  most  destructive  schemes,  will  upon 
the  stage  be  represented  in  the  most  ridiculous  light  the  hire- 
lings of  a  court  can  contrive.  True  patriotism  and  love  of 
public  good  will  be  represented  as  madness,  or  as  a  cloak  for 
envy,  disappointment,  and  malice,  whilst  the  most  flagitious 
crimes,  the  most  extravagant  vices  and  follies,  if  they  are 
fashionable  at  court,  will  be  disguised  and  dressed  up  in  the 
habit  of  the  most  amiable  virtues. 

This  has  formerly  been  the  case.  In  King  Charles  the 
Second's  days  the  playhouse  was  under  a  license ;  what  was 
the  consequence?  The  playhouse  retailed  nothing  but  the 
politics,  the  vices,  and  the  follies  of  a  court — not  to  expose 
them,  no,  but  to  recommend  them;  though  it  must  be  granted 
their  politics  were  often  as  bad  as  their  vices,  and  much  more 
pernicious  than  their  other  follies.  'Tis  true,  the  court  had  at 
that  time  a  great  deal  of  wit — it  was  then,  indeed,  full  of  men 
pf  true  wit  and  humor — but  it  was  the  more  dangerous ;  for 
the  courtiers  did  then,  as  thorough-paced  courtiers  always  will 
do  :  they  sacrificed  their  honor  by  making  their  wit  and  humor 
subservient  to  the  court  only ;  and  what  made  it  still  more 
dangerous,  no  man  could,  appear  against  .them.  .We  know 

38* 


450  APPENDIX. 

that  Dryden,  the  poet-laureate  of  that  reign,  always  repre- 
sents the  Cavaliers  as  honest,  brave,  merry  fellows  and  fine 
gentlemen.  Indeed,  his  fine  gentleman,  as  he  generally  draws 
him,  is  an  atheistical,  lewd,  abandoned  fellow,  which  was  at 
that  time,  it  seems,  the  fashionable  character  at  court.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  always  represents  the  Dissenters  as  hypocrit- 
ical, dissembling  rogues  or  stupid,  senseless  boobies.  When 
the  court  had  a  mind  to  fall  out  with  the  Dutch,  he  wrote  his 
Amboyna,  in  which  he  represents  the  Dutch  as  a  pack  of  avari- 
cious, cruel,  ungrateful  rascals ;  and  when  the  Exclusion  Bill 
was  moved  in  Parliament,  he  wrote  his  Duke  of  Guise,  in 
which  those  who  were  for  preserving,  and  securing  the  religion 
of  their  country  were  exposed  under  the  character  of  the 
Duke  of  Guise  and  his  party,  who  leagued  together  for  ex- 
cluding Henry  the  Fourth  of  France  from  the  throne  on  ac- 
count of  his  religion. 

The  city  of  London  was  made  to  feel  the  partial  and  mer- 
cenary licentiousness  of  the  stage  at  the  time,  for  the  citizens 
had  at  that  time,  as  well  as  now,  a  great  deal  of  property,  and 
therefore  they  opposed  some  of  the  arbitrary  measures  which 
were  then  begun,  but  pursued  more  openly  in  the  following 
reign ;  for  which  reason  they  were  then  always  represented 
upon  the  stage  as  a  parcel  of  designing  knaves,  dissembling 
hypocrites,  griping  usurers,  and  cuckolds  into  the  bargain. 

My  Lords,  the  proper  business  of  the  stage,  and  that  for 
which  it  is  only  useful,  is  to  expose  those  vices  and  follies 
which  the  laws  cannot  lay  hold  of,  and  to  recommend  those 
beauties  and  virtues  which  ministers  or  courtiers  seldom  imitate 
or  reward.  But  by  laying  it  under  a  license — and  under  an 
arbitrary  court  license,  too — you  will,  in  my  opinion,  entirely 
pervert  its  use ;  for  though  I  have  the  greatest  esteem  for 
that  noble  duke  in  whose  hands  this  power  is  at  present 
designed  to  fall,  though  I  have  an  entire  confidence  in  his 
judgment  and  impartiality,  yet  I  may  suppose  that  a  lean- 
ing toward  the  fashions  of  a  court  is  sometimes  hard  to  be 
avoided.  It  may  be  difficult  to  make  one  who  is  every  day 
at  court  believe  that  to  be  a  vice  or  folly  which  he  sees  daily 
practised  by  those  he  loves  and  esteems.  By  custom  even 


APPENDIX.  45 I 

deformity  itself  becomes  familiar,  and  at  last  agreeable.  To 
such  a  person,  let  his  natural  impartiality  be  ever  so  great, 
that  may  appear  to  be  a  libel  against  the  court  which  is  only 
a  most  just  and  a  most  necessary  satire  upon  the  fashionable 
vices  and  follies  of  the  court.  Courtiers,  my  Lords,  are  too 
polite  to  reprove  one  another;  the  only  place  where  they  can 
meet  with  any  just  reproof  is  a  free  though  not  a  licentious 
stage ;  and  as  every  sort  of  folly  generally,  in  all  countries, 
begins  at  court,  and  from  thence  spreads  through  the  country, 
by  laying  the  stage  under  an  arbitrary  court  license,  instead 
of  leaving  it  what  it  is,  and  always  ought  to  be,  a  gentle  scourge 
for  the  vices  of  great  men  and  courtiers,  you  will  make  it  a 
canal  for  propagating  and  conveying  their  vices  and  follies 
through  the  whole  kingdom. 

From  hence,  my  Lords,  I  think  it  must  appear  that  the  bill 
now  before  us  cannot  be  so  properly  a  bill  for  restraining 
licentiousness,  as  it  may  be  called  a  bill  for  restraining  the 
liberty  of  the  stage ;  and  restraining  it,  too,  in  that  branch 
which  in  all  countries  has  been  the  most  useful ;  therefore  I 
must  look  on  the  bill  as  a  most  dangerous  encroachment  upon 
liberty,  likewise  an  encroachment  on  property.  Wit,  my  Lords, 
is  a  sort  of  property :  it  is  the  property  of  those  that  have  it, 
and  too  often  the  only  property  they  have  to  depend  on.  It 
is,  indeed,  but  a  precarious  dependence.  Thank  God  !  we, 
my  Lords,  have  a  dependence  of  another  kind ;  we  have  a 
much  less  precarious  support,  and  therefore  cannot  feel  the 
inconveniences  of  the  bill  now  before  us;  but  it  is  our  duty 
to  encourage  and  protect  wit,  whosoever's  property  it  may  be. 
Those  gentlemen  who  have  any  such  property  are  all,  I  hope, 
our  friends ;  do  not  let  us  subject  them  to  any  unnecessary  or 
arbitrary  restraint.  I  must  own  I  cannot  easily  agree  to  the 
laying  of  any  tax  upon  wit ;  but  by  this  bill  it  is  to  be  heavily 
taxed ;  it  is  to  be  excised,  for  if  the  bill  passes  it  cannot  be 
retailed  in  a  proper  way  without  a  permit ;  and  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  is  to  have  the  honor  of  being  chief  ganger, 
supervisor,  commissioner,  judge,  and  jury.  But,  what  is  still 
more  hard,  though  the  poor  author — the  proprietor,  I  should 
say — cannot  perhaps  dine  till  he  has  found  out  a  purchaser, 


452  APPENDIX. 

yet  before  he  can  propose  to  seek  for  a  purchaser  he  must  pa- 
tiently submit  to  have  his  goods  rummaged  at  this  new  excise- 
office,  where  they  may  be  detained  fourteen  days ;  and  even 
then  he  may  find  them  returned  as  prohibited  goods,  by  which 
his  chief  and  best  market  will  be  for  ever  shut  against  him ; 
and  that  without  any  cause,  without  the  least  shadow  of  reason, 
either  from  the  laws  of  his  country  or  the  laws  of  the  stage. 

These  hardships,  this  hazard,  which  every  gentleman  will 
be  exposed  to  who  writes  anything  for  the  stage,  must  cer- 
tainly prevent  every  man  of  a  generous  and  free  spirit  from 
attempting  anything  in  that  way ;  and  as  the  stage  has  always 
been  the  proper  channel  for  wit  and  humor,  therefore,  my 
Lords,  when  I  speak  against  this  bill,  I  must  think  I  plead  the 
cause  of  wit ;  I  plead  the  cause  of  humor ;  I  plead  the  cause 
of  the  British  stage  and  of  every  gentleman  of  taste  in  the 
kingdom.  But  it  is  not,  my  Lords,  for  the  sake  of  wit  only ; 
even  for  the  sake  of  His  Majesty's  Lord  Chamberlain  I  must  be 
against  this  bill.  The  noble  duke  who  has  now  the  honor  to 
execute  that  office  has,  I  am  sure,  as  little  inclination  to  dis- 
oblige as  any  man ;  but  if  this  bill  passes  he  must  disoblige ; 
he  may  disoblige  some  of  his  most  intimate  friends.  It  is 
impossible  to  write  a  play  but  some  of  the  characters  or  some 
of  the  satire  may  be  interpreted  to  point  at  some  person  or 
another,  perhaps  at  some  person  in  an  eminent  station.  When 
it  comes  to  be  acted  the  people  will  make  the  application,  and 
the  person  against  whom  the  application  is  made  will  think 
himself  injured,  and  will,  at  least  privately,  resent  it.  At 
present  this  resentment  can  be  directed  only  against  the  au- 
thor ;  but  when  an  author's  play  appears  with  my  Lord  Cham- 
berlain's passport  every  such  resentment  will  be  turned  from 
the  author  and  pointed  directly  against  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain, who  by  his  stamp  made  the  piece  current.  What  an 
unthankful  office  are  we  therefore,  by  this  bill,  to  put  upon  His 
Majesty's  Lord  Chamberlain  ! — an  office  which  can  no  ways 
contribute  to  his  honor  or  profit,  and  yet  such  an  one  as  must 
necessarily  gain  him  a  great  deal  of  ill-will  and  create  him  a 
number  of  enemies. 

The  last  reason  I  shall  trouble  your  Lordships  with  for  my 


APPENDIX.  453 

being  against  the  bill  is,  that,  in  my  opinion,  it  will  no  way 
answer  the  end  proposed ;  I  mean  the  end  openly  proposed, 
and  I  am  sure  the  only  end  which  your  Lordships  propose.  To 
prevent  the  acting  of  a  play  that  has  any  tendency  to  blas- 
phemy, immorality,  sedition,  or  private  scandal  can  signify 
nothing  unless  you  can  likewise  prevent  its  being  printed  and 
published.  On  the  contrary,  if  you  prevent  its  being  acted, 
and  admit  of  its  being  printed  and  published,  you  will  propa- 
gate the  mischief;  your  prohibition  will  prove  a  bellows  which 
will  blow  up  the  fire  you  intend  to  extinguish.  This  bill  can 
therefore  be  of  no  use  for  preventing  either  the  public  or  the 
private  injury  intended  by  such  a  play,  and  consequently  can 
be  of  no  manner  of  use,  unless  it  be  designed  as  a  precedent, 
as  a  leading  step,  toward  another  for  subjecting  the  press  like- 
wise to  a  licenser.  For  such  a  wicked  purpose  it  may  indeed 
be  of  great  use ;  and  in  that  light  it  may  most  properly  be 
called  a  step  toward  arbitrary  power. 

Let  us  consider,  my  Lords,  that  arbitrary  power  has  seldom 
or  never  been  introduced  into  any  country  at  once ;  it  must 
be  introduced  by  slow  degrees;  and,  as  it  were,  step  by  step, 
lest  the  people  should  perceive  its  approach.  The  barriers 
and  fences  of  the  people's  liberty  must  be  plucked  up  one  by 
one,  and  some  plausible  pretences  must  be  found  for  removing 
or  hoodwinking  one  after  another  those  sentries  who  are  posted 
by  the  constitution  of  every  free  country  to  warn  the  people 
of  their  danger.  When  these  preparatory  steps  are  once  made, 
the  people  may  then,  indeed,  with  regret  see  slavery  and  arbi- 
trary power  making  long  strides  over  their  land,  but  it  will 
then  be  too  late  to  think  of  avoiding  or  preventing  the  im- 
pending ruin.  The  stage,  my  Lords,  and  the  press  are  two  of 
our  out-sentries ;  if  we  remove  them,  if  we  hoodwink  them, 
the  enemy  may  surprise  us.  Therefore  I  must  look  upon  the 
bill  now  before  us  as  a  step — and  a  most  necessary  step,  too — 
for  introducing  arbitrary  power  into  this  kingdom.  It  is  a  step 
so  necessary  that  if  ever  any  future  ambitious  king  or  guilty 
minister  should  form  to  himself  so  wicked  a  design,  he  will 
have  reason  to  thank  us  for  having  done  so  much  of  the  work 
to  his  hand ;  but  such  thanks,  or  thanks  from  such  a  man,  I 


454  APPENDIX. 

am  convinced  every  one  of  your  Lordships  would  blush  to 
receive  and  scorn  to  deserve. 
And  then  the  bill  passed! 


III. 

DAVID   GARRICK'S   FIRST  APPEARANCE. 

DAVID  GARRICK  made  his  first  appearance  at  "Goodman's 
Fields."  That  theatre  did  not  possess  a  patent;  therefore 
the  performance  of  Richard  the  Third  could  only  be  given 
by  introducing  it  as  a  gratuity  between  parts  of  an  operatic 
entertainment.  The  following  bill  of  the  play  shows  the 
manner  in  which  the  theatrical  law  was  evaded : 

Oct.  19,  1741. 
Goodman's  Fields. 

At  the  Theatre,  Goodman's  Fields,  this  day  will  be  performed 

A  Concert  of  Vocal  and  Instrumental  Music, 

Divided  into  Two  Parts. 

Tickets,  35.  25.  and  is. 

Places  for  the  Boxes  to  be  taken  at  the  Fleece  Tavern,  near 
the  Theatre.     N.  B.  Between  the  Two  Parts  of  the  Con- 
cert  will    be    presented  an  Historical    Play,   called 
The  Life  and  Death  of  King  Richard  the  Third. 

Containing  the  Distresses  of  King  Henry  VI. 

The  artful  acquisition  of  the  Crown  by  King  Richard. 

The  murder  of  young  King  Edward  V.  and  his  Brother  in 

the  Tower.     The  landing  of  the  Earl  of  Richmond. 

And  the  death  of  King  Richard  in  the  memorable  battle  of 

Bosworth  Field,  being  the  last  that  was  fought  between 

the  Houses  of  York  and  Lancaster ;  with  many  other 

true  Historical  Passages. 

The  part  of  KING  RICHARD,  by  a  Gentleman 

(who  never  appeared  on  any  stage). 


APPENDIX.  455 

King  Henry,  by  Mr.  Giffard;  Richmond,  Mr.  Marshall; 
Prince  Edward,  by  Miss  Hippesley;  Duke  of  York,  Miss 
Naylor ;  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Mr.  Paterson ;  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, Mr.  Blades;  Lord  Stanley,  Mr.  Paget ;  Oxford,  Mr. 
Vaughan ;  Tressell,  Mr.  W.  Giffard ;  Catesby,  Mr.  Marr ; 
Ratcliff,  Mr.  Crofts ;  Blunt,  Mr.  Naylor ;  Tyrrell,  Mr.  Put- 
tenham ;  Lord  Mayor,  Mr.  Dunstall.  The  Queen,  Mrs. 
Steel ;  Duchess  of  York,  Mrs.  Yates. 

And  the  part  of  LADY  ANNE,  by  Mrs.  Giffard. 

With  Entertainments  of  Dancing, 
By  Monsieur  Fromet,  Madame  Duvalt,  and  the  two  Masters 

and  Miss  Granier. 
To  which  will  be  added,  a  Ballad  Opera,  in  one  Act,  called 

The  VIRGIN  UNMASKED. 
The  part  of  Lucy,  by  Miss  Hippesley. 

Both  of  which  will  be  performed  gratis,  by  Persons  for  their 
Diversion. 

The  Concert  will  begin  exactly  at  Six  o1  Clock. 


IV. 

THE  theatrical  fashion  of  the  times  has  recorded  every- 
thing concerning  the  excellence  of  that  great  actor,  David 
Garrick,  while  it  has  been  considered  only  something  short 
of  heresy  to  republish  any  matter  reflecting  on  the  weak 
points  of  his  character  or  on  the  defects  of  his  acting.  When 
we  consider  the  exclusive  control  he  exercised  over  the  for- 
tunes of  actors  and  the  drama,  we  are  led  to  believe  in  the 
old  saying,  "All  that  glitters  is  not  gold."  The  history  of 
the  stage,  as  well  as  that  of  politics,  shows  how  much  of  tin- 
sel can  be  palmed  off  for  trtie  metal  by  the  glare  and  glitter 
of  sophisticated  laudation.  .  . 

Mr.  Theophilus  Gibber,  the  son  of  Colley  Gibber,  though 


456  APPENDIX. 

"a  pestiferous  fellow"  and  "a  discontented  paper,"  as  he 
was  termed  by  the  believers  in  Mr.  Garrick's  assumed  dra- 
matic supremacy,  found  among  the  judicious  few,  as  well  as 
the  unthinking  many,  those  who  were  not  chained  to  the 
chariot- wheels  of  the  "little  great  monarch"  of  the  stage, 
and  who  endorsed  the  honest  opinions  of  adverse  criticism 
that,  though  a  great  actor,  Garrick  had  faults  which  he  shared 
in  common  with  all  possessing  qualities  of  true  excellence. 
No  man  was  better  qualified  to  comment  on  the  usurpation 
of  "patentees"  and  "theatrical  managers"  than  Theophi- 
lus  Gibber. 

The  following  article  will  interest  those  who  desire  to 
hear  more  than  one  side  of  this  question.  David  Garrick 
had  honors  enough  heaped  upon  him  to  "sink  a  navy." 
That  he  did  not  deserve  them  all  is  quite  probable,  and 
that  his  merits  were  not,  as  is  generally  supposed,  univer- 
sally acknowledged,  is  certain.  "Grey"  wrote  to  Chute: 
"Did  I  tell  you  about  Garrick,  that  the  town  are  'horn 
mad'  after?"  .  .  .  "There  are  a  dozen  dukes  of  a  night 
sometimes  at  Goodman's  Fields,  and  yet  I  am  stiff  in  the 
opposition."  Horace  Wai  pole,  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Horace 
Mann  dated  \  26th  May,  1742,  thus  reported  his  opinion  of 
Garrick  at  that  early  but  brilliant  period  of  his  career  :  "  But 
all  the  run  is  now  after  Garrick,  a  wine-merchant,  who  is 
turned  player  at  Goodman's  Fields.  He  plays  all  parts,  and 
is  a  very  good  mimic.  His  acting  I  have  seen,  and  may  say 
to  you,  who  will  not  tell  it  again  here,  I  see  nothing  wonder- 
ful in  it,  but  it  is  heresy  to  say  so ;  the  Duke  of  Argyle  says 
he  is  superior  to  Betterton."  Criticism  in  favor  of  Garrick 
and  against  him  raged  to  such  an  extent  during  his  career 
that  it  was  wellnigh  impossible  to  come  to  any  just  conclu- 
sion as  to  his  merits. 


APPENDIX.  457 

DISSERTATIONS   ON   THEATRICAL  SUBJECTS. 
BY  THEOPHILUS  GIBBER,  COMEDIAN  (LONDON,  1759). 

To  come  nearer  our  own  times.  Did  not  the  truly  pious 
and  learned  Archbishop  Tillotson,  speaking  of  plays,  say, 
"They  might  be  so  framed  and  governed  by  such  rules  as 
not  only  to  be  innocently  diverting,  but  instructive  and  use- 
ful to  put  some  follies  and  vices  out  of  countenance  which 
cannot  perhaps  be  so  decently  reproved,  nor  so  effectually 
exposed  and  corrected,  any  other  way"?  Nay,  that  invete- 
rate enemy  of  the  stage,  Collier,  allows,  as  an  undeniable 
truth,  "That  the  wit  of  man  cannot  invent  anything  more 
conducive  to  virtue  and  destructive  to  vice  than  the  drama." 

From  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  to  the  breaking  out  of  that 
unnatural  rebellion  in  1641,  the  number  of  playhouses  was 
seldom  less  than  eight,  and  sometimes  double  that  number, 
the  London  and  Westminster  were  then  scarcely  a  tenth  part 
so  large  as  at  present,  and  the  frequenters  of  theatres  are  now 
increased  an  hundred-fold. 

Every  theatre  then  had  its  particular  patrons  among  the 
nobility,  and  the  stage  in  general  was  thought  worthy  the 
encouragement  of  that  glorious  princess.  This  appeared  in 
the  countenance,  favor,  and  protection  she  gave  to  all  the 
sons  of  the  Muses,  especially  the  dramatic  poets.  Then  a 
Fletcher,  Jonson,  and  Shakespeare  arose  and  enriched  the 
stage  with  their  admirable  compositions.  A  queen  patron- 
ized them,  her  nobles  followed  the  great  example;  a  South- 
ampton at  one  time  made  a  present  of  one  thousand  pounds 
to  his  honored  friend  Shakespeare — a  gift  then  equal  to  five 
times  that  sum  now.* 

*  After  the  burning  down  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  by  which  Mr. 
John  Kemble  lost  his  all,  he  met  Mr.  John  Taylor,  to  whom  he  related 
the  following : 

"  A  gentleman  waited  on  me  by  desire  of  the  duke  of  Northumber- 
land to  express  His  Grace's  sincere  concern  for  the  melancholy  event 
which  had  occurred,  and  to  signify  that  if  ^"10,000  would  be  of  use  to  me 
in  the  present  emergency,  His  Grace  would  order  that  this  sum  should 
be  advanced  to  me.  I  expressed  my'  gratitude  as  well  as  my  surprise 
at  so  generous  an  offer,  but  desired  the  gentleman  to  say  that  as  it  never 

39 


APPENDIX. 

In  these  and  some  following  reigns  such  honors  were  done 
to  dramatic  compositions  that  the  noblest  personages  of  the 
court — nay,  crowned  heads — have  thought  it  no  impeachment 
of  their  honor  or  good  sense  not  only  to  become  spectators, 
but  were  performers  in  many  plays  and  masques  acted  at 
court,  to  decorate  which  no  expense  was  spared. 

In  Rhymer's  Fcedera  we  find  a  copy  of  a  license  under  the 
privy  seal  granted  by  King  James  the  First  for  the  establish- 
ing and  supporting  a  company  of  comedians,  not  only  in  Lon- 
don, but  in  any  part  of  England ;  which  grant  was  made  to 
Cowley,  Armyn,  Sly,  Condel,  Hemings,  Phillips,  Burbage, 
Fletcher,  and  the  immortal  Shakespeare.  These  were  all  act- 
ors, and  several  of  them  poets — a  sensible,  honorable,  and 
happy  junction. 

During  that  reign,  and  part  of  King  Charles  the  First's,  the 
theatres  were  encouraged ;  then  poets  and  actors  reaped  the 
harvest  of  their  own  labors,  till  Puritanism  prevailed,  when, 
with  much  zeal  and  little  knowledge,  they  began  their  attacks 
on  the  stage,  and  in  a  heavy  load  of  dull  abuse  licentiously 
libelled  all  the  encouragers  of  plays  of  what  degree  soever. 

Soon  after  the  Restoration  the  theatres  again  revived,  and' 
two  patents  were  granted  by  King  Charles  the  Second — one 
to  form  a  company  to  be  called  "the  King's,"  the  other 
"the  Duke's."  They  were  severally  granted  to  Sir  William 
Davenant  and  Mr.  Kiiligrew.  But  both  these  patentees  found 
it  prudent  to  take  some  principal  actors  into  shares  with  them. 
Accordingly,  Mr.  Mohun,  Mr.  Hart,  Mr.  Kynaston,  and  other 
actors  became  partners  with  Mr.  Kiiligrew,  as  did  Mr.  Better- 
ton,  Mr.  Smith,  Mr.  Harris,  Mr.  Underbill,  and  others  with 
Sir  William  Davenant. 

could  be  in  my  power  to  repay  His  Grace,  I  felt  myself  obliged  to  de- 
cline his  noble  offer.  The  gentleman  called  on  me  again  to  repeat  the 
offer ;  and  I  then  said  I  must  still  decline  to  avail  myself  of  His  Grace's 
kindness,  for  that,  so  far  from  being  able  to  repay  the  principal  of  so  large 
a  sum,  I  did  not  think  it  would  ever  be  in  my  power  to  discharge  even 
the  interest.  The  gentleman  took  this  message  to  His  Grace,  but  called 
on  me  a  third  time  to  tell  me  that  His  Grace  made  the  offer  as  an  act  of 
friendship,  and  therefore  he  should  never  require  from  me  either  interest 
or  principal." 


APPENDIX.  459 

But  these  patents  became  afterward  branched  out  into  dif- 
ferent hands,  and  were  purchased  in  parcels  by  the  indolent 
and  ignorant,  who  so  oppressed  the  actors  that  on  their  just 
complaints,  made  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  then  Lord  Chamber- 
lain, he  not  only  heard  but  redressed  their  grievances.  He 
took  the  most  effectual  method  for  their  relief.  The  learned 
of  the  law  were  advised  with,  who  then  (as  many  have  since) 
gave  it  as  their  opinion  that  if  acting  of  plays  were  malum  in 
se  (in  itself  criminal),  no  royal  sanction  ought  or  could  pro- 
tect it;  but,  as  neither  law  nor  common  sense  had  ever 
deemed  it  so,  patents  and  licenses  were  thought  proper 
grants  from  the  Crown,  and  that  no  patent  from  any  former 
king  could  tie  up  the  hands  of  a  succeeding  prince  from  grant- 
ing the  like  authorities. 

On  this  representation  King  William,  of  glorious  memory, 
granted  a  license  to  Messrs.  Kynaston,  Betterton,  Dogget,  Bow- 
man, Underhill,  Mrs.  Barry,  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  and  others  to 
form  a  company  and  act  for  themselves. 

And  a  voluntary  subscription  was  soon  raised  to  build 
'em  a  theatre,  which  they  opened  on  Easter  Monday,  1695, 
with  that  admirable  comedy,  then  new,  called  Love  for  Love. 
There  they  continued  about  ten  years,  till  a  license  from  Queen 
Anne  being  granted  to  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  and  Mr.  Congreve, 
these  forementioned  actors  were  influenced  by  hopes  of  large 
rewards  to  act  under  these  new  managers.  But  in  two  seasons 
these  gentlemen,  the  men  of  great  parts,  wit,  and  sense,  from 
their  inexperience  and  want  of  knowledge  in  the  various 
branches  of  stage-management,  soon  found  themselves  disap- 
pointed, not  only  in  their  flattering  prospects  of  gain,  but 
were  unable  to  make  good  their  contracts. 

Then  the  late  Mr.  Swinny  agreed  with  Sir  John  for  the  use 
of  his  house,  cloaths,  scenes,  etc.  at  a  certain  rent.  This 
was  no  sooner  effected  but  the  actors  flew  from  their  ignorant 
tyrant  of  Drury  Lane  (who  had  got  the  patents  by  unaccount- . 
able  methods  into  his  hands)  and  played  under  Mr.  Swinny, 
who  took  Mr.  Wilks,  Mr.  Gibber,  and  Mr.  Dogget  into  the  man- 
agement with  him.  The  theatre  again  revived,  and  the  actors 
began  to  know  the  sweets  of  being  honestly  and  regularly  paid 


460  APPENDIX. 

their  due.  I  have  heard  several  who  acted  in  that  company 
declare  they  in  one  season  received  two  hundred  days'  pay. 

The  royal  patents,  being  again  sold  out  in  several  parcels, 
became  the  property  of  gentlemen  who  were  too  much  attach- 
ed to  their  pleasures  to  allow  so  much  time  and  attention  as 
was  necessary  for  carrying  on  the  business  of  the  theatre. 
The  patents  being  united,  the  proprietors,  to  save  themselves 
trouble,  deputed  an  agent  to  act  for  them.  He  was,  perhaps, 
one  of  the  most  dull  yet  cunning  mortals  that  ever  by  stupid- 
ity spoiled  a  good  project,  or  by  craft  and  chicanery  got  the 
better  of  unguarded  men  of  superior  parts.  Mr.  Gibber,  ST., 
in  his  Apology,  observes  that  "this  good  master  was  as  sly  a 
tyrant  as  ever  was  at  the  head  of  a  theatre,  for  he  gave  the 
actors  more  liberty  and  fewer  days'  pay  than  any  of  his  pre- 
decessors. He  would  laugh  with  them  over  a  bottle,  and 
bite  'em  in  their  bargains,  he  kept  them  poor,  that  they 
might  not  be  able  to  rebel,  and  sometimes  merry,  that  they 
might  not  think  of  it." 

This  was  the  net  the  actors  danced  in  for  several  years; 
but  no  wonder  the  actors  were  dupes,  while  their  master  was 
a  lawyer ;  and  he  often  showed  the  proprietors  (who  entrust- 
ed him  with  the  management  of  their  patent)  that  he  knew 
enough  of  the  wrong  side  of  the  law  to  lead  them  a  long  chace 
in  Chancery  for  many  years  together.  Thus  did  he  perplex 
and  embroil  their  affairs  till  he  tired  'em  out  and  got  the 
power  into  his  own  hands. 

There  being  then  but  one  company,  the  actors  found  them- 
selves all  reduced  in  their  salaries  (low  enough  before),  and  an 
indulto  was  laid  of  one-third  of  the  profits  of  their  benefits  for 
the  use  of  the  patentee. 

These  and  other  of  his  repeated  acts  of  injustice  and  stupid 
tyranny  made  the  actors  join  in  a  body  to  appeal  for  redress 
to  the  then  Lord  Chamberlain. 

They  again  were  heard,  and  again  found  redress.  An  order 
came  from  that  office  to  silence  the  patentee  and  to  supersede 
his  power.  The  authority  of  the  patentee  no  longer  subsist- 
ing, the  confederate  actors  walked  out  of  the  house,  to  which 
they  never  returned  till  they  became  tenants  and  masters  of  it. 


APPENDIX.  461 

However,  this  cunning  shaver,  having  once  made  himself 
sole  monarch  of  the  theatrical  empire,  at  his  death  left  the 
quiet  possession  of  that  power  to  his  son. 

After  the  supersedeas  of  the  patent  the  power  of  acting  plays 
was,  by  a  court  license  and  a  court  interest,  shifted  into  dif- 
ferent hands  during  the  latter  part  of  Queen  Anne's  reign. 
But  the  nominal  director  (appointed  by  the  court),  leaving 
the  management  thereof  entirely  to  Messrs.  Wilks,  Gibber, 
and  Dogget,  contented  himself  with  the  certainty  of  receiv- 
ing an  annual  income  of  seven  hundred  pounds — no  incon- 
siderable stipend  for  doing  nothing. 

On  the  happy  accession  of  His  Majesty  King  George  the 
First  to  the  crown  of  Great  Britain,  Sir  Richard  Steele  ob- 
tained a  patent  as  governor  of  His  Majesty's  company  of 
comedians,  and  Messrs.  Wilks,  Gibber,  and  Booth  were  made 
joint  directors  and  sharers  with  him.  During  their  adminis- 
tration (which  lasted  near  twenty  years)  the  business  of  the 
stage  was  so  well  conducted  that  authors,  actors,  and  man- 
agers had  never  enjoyed  more  mutual  content  or  a  more  gen- 
eral prosperity. 

Then  it  was  that  the  polite  world,  by  their  decent  atten- 
tion, their  sensible  taste,  and  their  generous  encouragement 
of  authors  and  actors,  showed  that  the  stage  under  a  due  reg- 
ulation was  capable  of  being  what  the  wisest  ages  thought  it 
might  be — the  most  rational  scheme  that  human  wit  could 
form  to  dissipate  with  innocence  the  cares  of  life ;  to  allure 
even  the  turbulent  or  ill-disposed  from  worse  meditations ; 
and  to  give  the  leisure  hours  of  business  and  virtue  an  instruct- 
ive recreation.  Then  authors  were  treated  like  gentlemen, 
and  actors  with  humanity.  Those  managers  never  discharged 
an  actor  unless  his  total  neglect  of  their  business  compelled 
them  to  it.  The  actor  then  who,  through  sickness,  accident, 
or  age,  became  an  invalid,  still  enjoyed  his  salary — nay,  had 
his  benefit  in  turn — nor  dreaded  poverty  being  added  to  his 
other  misfortunes.  Of  this  benevolence  and  generosity  they 
gave  many  instances. 

The  patent  granted  to  Sir  Richard  Steele  was  for  his  life  and 
to.  his  assigns  for. three  years  after.     He  died  in  the  year  1729. 
39* 


4-62  APPENDIX. 

In  the  year  1732  a  new  patent  was  granted  to  Messrs.  Gibber, 
Wilks  and  Booth ;  soon  after,  Mr.  Booth  (whose  unhappy  ill- 
ness had  for  some  years  past  deprived  the  stage  of  one  of  its 
chief  ornaments)  sold  a  moiety  of  his  share.  Not  long  after 
the  stage  suffered  an  irreparable  loss  by  Mr.  Wilks  quitting 
that  and  life  together.  His  widow  took  a  nominal  partner  into 
her  share.  I  farmed  Mr.  Gibber,  Sr.'s,  share  till  he  sold  it. 

Toward  the  end  of  that  season  Mr.  Booth  died.  As  the 
merits  of  Mr.  Booth  and  Mr.  Wilks  were  universally  admired, 
no  wonder  their  loss  was  universally  lamented.  They  left 
the  judicious  lovers  of  the  theatre  in  despair  of  seeing  their 
equals. 

In  the  month  of  September,  in  the  year  1733,  myself  and  a 
large  body  of  comedians  found  an  asylum  in  the  Haymarket 
Theatre,  protected  by  a  generous  town  against  the  despotic 
power  of  some  petulant,  capricious,  unskilful,  indolent,  and 
oppressive  patentees.  At  that  juncture  a  patent  granted  as 
a  reward  to  actors  of  merit  by  being  privately  stockjobbed 
became  the  property  of  some  who  proved  by  the  event  they 
had  more  money  than  knowledge  of  what  they  had  trafficked 
for. 

The  actors,  who  chose  not  such  unskilful  governors,  and 
who  reasonably  supposed  they  could  guide  themselves,  had 
taken  a  lease  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  but  being  illegally  shut 
out  of  that  by  the  then  patentees,  they  were  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  acting  in  the  little  theatre  of  the  Haymarket  till 
by  course  of  law  they  were  restored  to  their  right  in  the  other. 
'Twas  here  that  upward  of  a  hundred  successive  nights  as 
many  crowded  audiences  loudly  spoke  in  favor  of  our  attempts. 
And,  to  crown  all,  when  the  laws  were  strained  to  crush  us,  a 
lord  chief-justice  whose  memory  ought  ever  to  be  adored  as- 
serted our  liberty  and  defended  us  against  the  heavy  hand  of 
power  that  sought  to  oppress  us. 

The  endeavors  of  the  patentees  to  suppress  the  comedians 
proved  ineffectual,  and  the  haughty  treatment  they  met  with 
from  those  patentees  rendered  all  possibility  of  a  reunion  im- 
possible. Then  Mr.  Fleetwood  bought  the  patent  and  theatri- 
cal stock  at  an  easy  pricfe;  the  actors  returned  and  listed  under 


APPENDIX.  463 

his  banner  on  advantageous  terms  to  both  parties.  For  a  while 
the  manager  reaped  a  plenteous  yearly  harvest.  'Twere  in- 
vidious to  dwell  on  this  gentleman's  errors,  which  threw  the 
stage  again  into  confusion,  and  so  reduced  his  own  affairs  he 
found  it  necessary  to  retire  to  France  (where  he  died) ;  at 
which  time,  to  satisfy  a  mortgage  by  a  decree  in  Chancery, 
his  patent  was  sold  to  the  best  bidder,  and  became  the  prop- 
erty of  Messrs.  Green  and  Amber,  who  admitted  Mr.  Lacy  as 
a  third  sharer,  and  invested  him  with  the  whole  power.  The 
purchasers,  who  were  bankers,  failed  soon  after.  Then  Mr. 
Lacy  contrived  not  only  to  purchase  their  shares,  but  had 
address  enough  to  gain  a  promise  of  a  new  patent,  the  old  one 
being  near  expiring.  To  this  patent  he  admitted  Mr.  Garrick 
as  partner,  who  is  now  become  sole  manager,  the  other  seem- 
ing content  with  his  share  of  the  profit. 

The  characters  of  nations,  as-  well  as  private  persons,  are 
best  known  by  their  pleasures.  This  allowed,  of  what  conse- 
quence to  this  island  is  the  conduct  of  our  theatres  when  we 
consider  what  numbers  of  foreigners,  of  various  countries  and 
different  degrees  of  distinction,  through  curiosity  or  interest 
pour  into  this  vast  metropolis,  and  frequently  make  a  part  of 
those  crowded  audiences  the  managers  of  playhouses  have  so 
happy  an  occasion  to  boast  of!  Does  it  not  behoove  us  to 
look  into  the  conduct  of  those  managers  of  playhouses  who 
are  honored  with  so  weighty  a  trust  as  the  uncontrollable 
direction  of  our  monopolized  diversions? 

This,  perhaps,  is  little  considered  by  the  greater  number 
of  spectators,  who  go  to  the  theatre  merely  as  an  idle  amuse- 
ment to  while  away  the  hours  or  dissipate  the  spleen,  as  humor, 
leisure,  indolence,  or  fashion  leads  them. 

If  we  consider  this  general  humor  of  dissipation  in  which 
people  go  to  plays,  we  shall  no  longer  wonder  we  hear  of  fre- 
quent loud  applauses  most  lavishly  and  indiscriminately  be- 
stowed. If  they  are  amused,  they  care  not  how,  and  seldom 
stay  to  ask  their  judgments  the  question  whether  the  greatest 
absurdities  have  not  met  with  the  greatest  encouragement,  and 
whether  patentees  and  players  have  not  joined  in  laying  a 
foundation  for  a  false,  disgraceful  tas*te. 


464  APPENDIX. 

Does  not  this  call  loudly  for  reformation  ?  It  rests  on  you, 
gentlemen,  who  are  properly  called  "the  Town." 

Wit,  good  sense,  and  politeness  were  always  thought  neces- 
sary to  support  the  character  and  dignity  of  the  stage,  and 
that  the  management  of  it  ought  to  be  entrusted  to  persons 
justly  qualified  to  judge  of  all  performances  fit  to  be  intro- 
duced there,  that  works  of  genius  might  meet  with  proper 
encouragement,  and  dulness  and  immorality  be  effectually 
excluded. 

Has  this  been  the  constant  conduct  of  the  present  grand 
director?  I  am  about  to  speak  but  of  one  now :  that  one 
will  afford  ample  theme  enough. 

Let  us,  then,  view  the  acting  manager  of  Drury  Lane.  In 
the  year  1747  he  opened  that  theatre  with  an  excellent  pro- 
logue, the  conclusion  of  which  gave  the  town  to  hope  it  would 
be  their  fault  if,  from  that  time,  any  farcical  absurdity  of  pan- 
tomime or  fooleries  from  France  were  again  intruded  on  them. 

It  was  the  town  who  were,  from  that  auspicious  night  of 
his  theatrical  inauguration, 

To  bid  the  reign  commence  of  rescued  Nature  and  1'eviving  Sense, 

To  change  the  charms  of  Sound  and  pomp  of  Show 

For  useful  Mirth  and  salutary  Woe — 

Bid  scenic  Virtue  form  the  rising  age, 

And  Truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage. 

But  has  he  kept  his  word  during  his  successful  reign  ?  Has 
the  stage  been  preserved  in  its  proper  purity,  decency,  and 
dignity  ?  Have  no  good  new  plays  been  refused  or  neglect- 
ed ?  Have  none  but  the  most  moral  and  elegant  of  the  old 
ones  been  revived  ?  Have  we  not  had  a  greater  number  of 
those  unmeaning  fopperies  miscalled  "entertainments"  than 
ever  was  known  to  disgrace  the  stage  in  so  few  years?  Has 
not  every  year  produced  one  of  these  patchwork  pantomimes 
— these  masqueing  mummeries,  replete  with  ribaldry,  buffoon- 
ery, and  nonsense,  but  void  of  invention,  connection,  humor, 
or  instruction — these  Arabian  kickshaws  or  Chinese  festivals 
— these  (call  'em  what  you  please,  as  any  one  silly  name 
may  suit  them  all  alike)— these  mockeries  of  sense— the^se 


APPENDIX.  465 

larger  kind  of  puppet-shows — these  idle  amusements  for  chil- 
dren and  holiday  fools,  as  ridiculously  gaudy  as  the  glitter- 
ing pageantry  of  a  pastry-cook's  shop  on  a  Twelfth  Night? 
Could  he  plead  necessity  for  this  introduction  of  theatrical 
abuse,  this  infamy  of  the  stage,  this  war  upon  wit  in  behalf 
of  levity  and  ignorance  ?  No.  He  wanted  no  encourage- 
ment to  establish  the  theatre  on  a  reputable  foundation  with- 
out these  auxiliaries.  His  theatre  was  constantly  crowded, 
his  performances  applauded,  nor  did  the  spectators  grudge 
paying  the  raised  prices  for  a  play  alone.  If  he  feared  this 
taste  for  good  sense  would  not  last,  it  was  at  least  worth  a  lit- 
tle longer  trial. 

But  avarice  is  ever  in  haste  to  increase  its  store ;  it  never 
stays  to  consider  what  is  most  laudable  when  what  may  prove 
most  profitable  is  the  question. 

Our  politic  man  of  power,  therefore,  would  not  lose  this 
opportunity  of  being  in  full  possession  of  the  favor  of  the 
town  to  introduce  these  motley  mummeries,  while  he  had  it  in 
his  power  to  make  everything  go  down  that  he  judged  for  his 
ease  or  profit.  In  consequence  whereof,  what  large  rewards 
have  been  given  to  the  compiler  of  these  interludes,  stolen 
from  the  stale  night-scenes  of  Saddler's  Wells  and  Bartholomew 
Fair ! — such  rewards  as  would  have  satisfied  some  authors  of 
merit  for  as  many  good  plays. 

More  money  is  annually  squandered  on  one  of  these  foolish 
farces  than,  judiciously  laid  out,  would  decorate  three  or  four 
tragedies  or  comedies,  in  the  bringing  forward  of  which  the 
time  (lost  on  the  other)  might  be  more  eligibly  employed. 

Has  this  little  giant-queller,  who  stepped  forth  in  his  pro- 
logue and  promised  the  town  to  drive  exotic  monsters  from  the 
stage — has  he  kept  his  word?  On  the  contrary,  has  he  not 
commissioned 

"  Great  Harlequin  to  lay  the  ghost  of  wit  ? 
Exulting  Folly  hails  the  joyful  day, 
And  Pantomime  and  Song  confirms  her  sway." 

'Tis  true  he  has  given  us  some  new  plays,  and  we  have  been 
constantly  told  that  each  succeeding  one  was  to  be  more  ex- 

2E 


466  APPENDIX. 

cellent  than  the  former.  So  pregnant  of  promises  were  our 
stage-puffers,  the  echoes  of  their  little  monarch,  to  have  given 
them  credit  one  must  have  imagined  all  former  poets  men  of 
little  genius,  compared  to  the  all-bepraised  writers  for  the 
present  stage.  But,  unluckily  for  the  moderns,  and  happily 
for  the  reputation  of  the  old  writers,  the  productions  of  both 
are  printed.  Could  the  pen  or  pencil  describe  or  delineate 
the  graces  and  excellences  of  some  former  actors,  we  should 
not  be  pestered  with  impertinent  comparisons,  or  a  preposter- 
ous preference  of  any  living  actor  to  a  Booth  or  a  Betterton, 
as  we  have  been  with  a  profusion  of  praise  equally  bestowed 
on  a  Barbarossa  and  the  noble  productions  of  Otway  and 
Shakespeare ;  yet  till  Barbarossa  was  printed  what  a  paradise 
of  pompous  praise  was  lavished  on  it ! 

Unless  a  play  comes  strongly  recommended  from  some  high 
interest,  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  it  read,  and  how  much  more 
difficult  it  is  even  then  to  have  it  acted,  is  well  known  to 
several  who  have  gone  through  the  ridiculous  ceremony,  and 
to  many  more  who  scorned  the  attendance  required  by  these 
stage-dictators.  To  gain  admittance  to  them  is  frequently 
more  difficult  than  to  come  at  a  prime  minister. 

How  droll  to  see  the  mockeries  of  state  when  one  of  these 
petty  princes  is  surrounded  by  his  little  theatrical  dependants, 
watching  the  motion  of  his  eye,  all  joyous  if  he  deigns  to 
smile,  as  downcast  if  his  looks  are  grave  or  fallen  !  But  if  the 
pleasant  prince  condescend  to  joke,  like  Sir  Paul  Pliant  they 
are  prepared  to  laugh  incontinently.  They  stand  like  An- 
thony's, kings,  "who,  when  he  said  the  word,  would  all  start 
forth  like  school-boys  to  a  muss."  Thus  is  the  little  pride  of 
a  manager  puffed  up  by  the  servile  adulation  of  his  theatrical 
dependants,  who,  poor  unhappy  objects  of  pity  !  never  con- 
sider their  abject  state.  Use  has  made  their  fetters  easy  to 
'em,  yet  how  natural  is  it  to  demand,  as  on  the  entrance  of 
the  blacks  in  Oroonoko,  "Are  all  these  wretches  slaves?" — 
"All,  all  slaves — they  and  their  posterity  all  slaves"! 

From  hence  this  mock  prince  presumes  to  expect  such  so- 
licitation as  gentlemen  every  way  his  superiors  cannot  stoop 
to.  Then  what  avails  the  merit  of  a  play  while  such  monop- 


APPENDIX.  467 

olizers  can  prevent  its  appearance  ?  What  man  of  spirit  will 
undergo  the  ungenteel  treatment  he  is  like  to  meet  with  from 
salacious  triflers  ?  Thus  many  a  piece  is  lost  to  the  town  that 
perhaps  had  given  credit  to  the  stage. 

I  will  venture  to  affirm  there  is  now  in  being  some  dramatic 
pieces  (of  which  I  have  been  favored  with  a  perusal)  no  ways 
inferior  (I  shall  not  say  too  much  if  I  add  of  superior  merit) 
to  most  that  a  partial  patentee,  in  his  wantonness  of  power, 
has  thrust  upon  the  town,  and  by  his  stage-politics  has  sup- 
ported for  an  unusual  number  of  nights.  Such  is  the  power 
of  our  stage-dictators,  who  may  cry  out,  Drawcansir-like, 

"  All  this  I  do,  because  I  dare." 

The  common  put-off  to  an  author  when  the  patentee  is  not 
inclined  to  serve  him  is,  "The  thing  is  pretty,  to  be  sure; 
there's  merit  in  it,  but  it  wants  alteration."  Yet  if  it  was 
altered  they  had  not  time ;  their  hands  are  full ;  the  business 
of  their  season  fully  planned ;  they  have  not  a  night  to  spare ; 
and  such  paltry  put-bys  as  no  one  believes,  not  even  them- 
selves who  say  'em.  Not  to  dwell  on  the  indifferent  plays 
they  have  acted,  or  some  of  more  merit  that  may  have  been 
refused  by  'em,  let  us  inquire  a  little  what  mighty  business  has 
so  employed  their  time  that  not  a  few  nights  can  be  found  to 
give  an  author  fair  play.  The  present  season  (1776)  is  now 
about  half  over,  and  what  has  been  done?  Why,  the  town 
has  been  entertained  with  a  frequent  repetition  of  their  old 
plays  and  stale  farces,  and  one  farce,  entitled  The  Fair  Qua- 
ker of  Deal,  has  been  palmed  upon  the  town  as  a  revived  com- 
edy, and  exhibited  a  greater  number  of  nights  than  formerly 
better  plays,  much  better  acted,  were  ever  known  to  reign. 
As  Bartholomew  Fair  has  been  some  years  suppressed,  the 
politic  manager  contrived  to  introduce  drolls  on  the  stage  at 
the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury  Lane.  'Twas  usual  with  the  mas- 
ters of  droll-booths  to  get  some  genius  of  a  lower  class  to 
supply  'em  with  scenes  detached  from  our  plays,  altered  and 
adapted  to  the  taste  of  the  holiday  audjences  they  were  com- 
monly performed  to.  This  hint  the  manager  has  taken,  and 


468  APPENDIX. 

of  this  gallimanfry  kind  was  the  pastoral  (as  he  called  it) 
exhibited  at  Drury's  Theatre. 

The  Winter1  s  Tale  of  Shakespeare,  though  one  of  his  most 
irregular  pieces,  abounds  with  beautiful  strokes  and  touching 
circumstances.  The  very  title,  A  Winter1  s  Tale,  seems  fixed 
on  by  the  author  as  an  apology  for,  and  a  bespeaking  of,  a 
loose  plan,  regardless  of  rule  as  to  time  or  place.  The  story 
affected  his  mind  and  afforded  a  large  field  for  his  lively  im- 
agination to  wander  in ;  and  here  the  poet, 

"  Fancy's  sweetest  child, 
Warbles  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

In  the  alteration  many  of  the  most  interesting  circumstances, 
the  most  affecting  passages,  and  the  finest  strokes  in  writing, 
which  mark  the  characters  most  strongly  and  are  most  likely 
to  move  the  heart,  are  entirely  omitted,  such  as  the  jealousy 
of  Leontes,  the  trial  of  Hermione,  etc.  What  remains  is  so 
unconnected,  is  such  a  mixture  of  piecemeal,  motley  patch- 
work, that  the  Winter* s  Tale  of  Shakespeare,  thus  lopped, 
hacked,  and  docked,  appears  without  head  or  tail.  In  order 
to  curtail  it  to  three  acts  the  story  of  the  first  three  acts  of  the 
original  play,  and  which  contain  some  of  the  noblest  parts, 
are  crowded  into  a  dull  narrative,  in  the  delivery  of  which 
the  performer  makes  no  happy  figure.  So  at  the  beginning 
of  the  third  act  the  principal  parts  of  the  story,  which  in  the 
alteration  we  might  have  expected  to  have  seen  represented, 
were  given  in  two  long-winded  relations  by  two  unskilled  per- 
formers, whose  manner  made  'em  appear  "as  tedious  as  a 
twice-told  tale,  vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man."  And 
this  hasty  hash  or  hotchpotch  is  called  altering  Shakespeare ! 
Whenever  Shakespeare  is  to  be  cut  up,  let's  hope  some  more 
delicate  hand  and  judicious  head  will  be  concerned  in  the 
dissection. 

"  Let's  carve  him  like  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  like  a  carcass  fit  for  hounds." 

Were  Shakespeare's  ghost  to  rise,  would  he  not  frown  in- 
dignation on  this  pilfering  peddler  in  poetry,  who  thus  shame- 


APPENDIX.  469 

fully  mangles,  mutilates,  and  emasculates  his  plays  ?  The  Mid- 
summer Nigh? s  Dream  has  been  minced  and  fricasseed  into 
an  indigested  and  unconnected  thing  called  The  Fairies ;  the 
Winter1  s  Tale  mammocked  into  a  droll ;  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  made  a  farce  of;  and  The  Tempest  turned  into  an  opera. 
Oh,  what  an  agreeable  lullaby  might  it  have  proved  to  our 
beaus  and  belles  to  have  heard  Caliban,  Sycorax,  and  one  of 
the  devils  trilling  of  trios  !  And  how  prettily  might  the  north 
wind  (like  the  tyrant  Barbarossa)  be  introduced  with  soft 
music !  To  crown  all,  as  the  Chinese  festival  proved  the 
devil  of  a  dance,  how  cleverly  might  it  have  been  introduced 
in  The  Tempest,  new-vamped  as  a  dance  of  frolicsome  devils ! 
Yet  Master  Garrick  would  insinuate  all  this  ill-usage  of 
the  bard  is  owing,  forsooth !  to  his  love  of  him — much  such 
a  mock  proof  of  his  tender  regard  as  the  cobbler's  drubbing 
his  wife.  In  the  two  last  bellman-like  nonsensical  lines  of 
his  absurd  prologue  to  the  Winter1  s  Tale  he  tells  you 

"  That  'tis  his  joy,  his  wish,  his  only  plan. 
To  lose  no  drop  of  that  immortal  man !' 

Why,  truly,  in  the  afore-mentioned  pieces  he  does  bottle  him 
up  with  a  vengeance  !  He  throws  away  all  the  spirited  part 
of  him,  all  that  bears  the  highest  flavor,  then  to  some  of  the 
dregs  adds  a  little  stuff  of  his  own,  and  modestly  palms  it  on 
his  customers  as  wine  of  the  first  growth.  A  pleasant  bever- 
age to  offer  gentlemen  by  way  of  bonne  louche !  Did  ever 
tricking  vintner  brew  so  scandalously  ?  But  thus  it  will  be  till 
his  playhouse-puffers  are  thoroughly  inquired  into,  and  that  it 
is  publicly  made  known  both  who  and  what  they  are ;  a  number 
of  which,  to  the  amount  of  some  hundreds,  are  made  free  of 
the  house,  or  sent  occasionally  in  with  orders  by  one  of  his 
agents,  who  from  thence,  in  mockery,  is  not  improperly  called 
the  "orderly"  sergeant.  From  hence  the  great  applause  that 
always  is  lavishly  bestowed  on  everything  that  is  brought  on 
that  stage.  But  when  these  placemen,  as  they  may  be  literally 
called,  are  pointed  out.  as  little  regard  will  be  paid  to  the 
claps  of  these  mercenaries  as  to  the  bawling  hirelings  in  Smith- 
field,  who  are  appointed  to  roar  out,  "Gentlemen,  this  is  the 
40 


470  APPENDIX. 

only  booth  in  the  fair.  The  wonder  of  the  world  is  here, 
gentlemen." 

We'll  now  drop  the  patentee  a  while,  and  look  into  the 
merits  of  the  actor.  That  he  often  deserves  all  the  applause  a 
favorable  audience  may  bestow  will  not  be  denied;  that  he 
always  deserves  it  is  a  question ;  that  he  is  a  great  genius  is 
allowed ;  but  that  judgment  does  not  always  direct  his  spirit  will 
not,  sure,  be  thought  too  bold  an  assertion.  Whatever  wants 
there  may  be  in  a  performer  which  are  the  defects  of  Nature 
cannot  be  too  tenderly  touched,  but  errors  of  the  judgment 
demand  reproof,  and  wilful  errors,  substituted  in  the  room  of 
truth,  demand  more  :  they  ought  to  be  pointed  out,  they  ought 
to  be  exploded.  When  an  actor  prostitutes  his  profession  for 
the  vain  satisfaction  of  a  false  applause,  such  paltry  ambition 
should  be  checked  by  the  severest  censures  of  the  public. 

The  faults  or  affectations  of  the  ignorant  or  undeserving 
never  fall  under  the  cognizance  of  censure,  being  in  their 
nature  beneath  it;  but  the  faults  of  men  of  acknowledged 
merit  and  genius  call  on  every  lover  of  his  country  and  of 
taste  for  an  antidote  against  the  delicious  poison  of  their 
errors,  which  is  so  greedily  swallowed  by  the  young  and  un- 
experienced. Seneca,  a  man  of  wit  and  learning,  despairing 
to  rival  the  sober  and  masculine  eloquence  of  his  predecessors, 
stepped  aside  for  help  to  all  the  meretricious  arts  of  affectation 
and  quaintness ;  he  obtained  what  he  proposed  by  the  tinsel 
embroidery  of  a  sparkling,  flashy  style,  and  blazed  forth  the 
idol  of  the  gaping  multitude,  while  the  judicious  repined 
in  secret  at  the  rapidity  of  false  taste,  which  made  gigantic 
strides  in  the  republic  of  letters.  But,  alas !  what  was  the 
consequence?  As  far  short  as  Seneca  fell  of  those  great 
writers,  the  true  reflections  of  Nature,  so  did  his  imitators  in 
regard  to  him ;  for,  being  devoid  of  his  natural  capacity  and 
genius,  they  could  attain  nothing  but  his  tricks  of  eloquence. 
Hence  a  general  depravity  of  taste  arose ;  of  which  the  cele- 
brated rhetor  Quintilian,  in  his  lessons  to  the  youth  of  Rome, 
most  pathetically  complained,  and  gave  wholesome  admoni- 
tions to  steer  clear  of  the  siren  enchantments  of  Seneca's  pris- 
matic elocution. 


APPENDIX.  471 

It  can  be  deemed  no  less  than  a  compliment  to  any  favorite 
actor  in  being  to  compare  him  to  Seneca.  Permit  me,  then, 
against  a  pleasing  infectious  example,  in  humble  imitation  of 
the  rhetor,  to  hold  up  the  test  of  Nature,  experience,  and 
taste.  If  this  attempt  may  be  thought  worthy  the  attention  of 
disinterested  judges,  let  slavish  hirelings  bark  out  their  dislike. 

About  fifteen  years  ago,  when  our  lively  hero  first  started 
up  at  Goodman's  Fields,  and  met  with  that  encouragement  he 
deserved,  flushed  with  applause  after  the  long  successful  strides 
he  had  taken  in  Richard,  he  determined  to  step  into  tragic 
characters  of  a  different  cast.  Having  the  theatres  at  this 
end  of  the  town  in  his  eye,  he  concluded  that  could  he  by 
any  artful  means  damn  the  actors  then  playing  at  the  two 
Theatres  Royal,  it  would  not  a  little  contribute  to  his  suc- 
cess. He  therefore,  with  the  policy  of  a  Frenchman  and  the 
cunning  of  a  Jesuit,  contrived  to  depreciate  the  performance 
of  those  players  in  the  opinion  of  the  town  previous  to  his 
stepping  into  their  parts.  He  recollected  The  Rehearsal  had 
been  revived  about  two  years  before,  and  acted  upwards  of 
forty  nights  in  one  season  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Covent 
Garden.  The  character  of  Bayes  he  thought  he  could  per- 
vert to  his  own  use  by  indulging  his  artful  spleen  in  mimick- 
ing the  actors,  and  by  turning  the  force  of  ridicule  on  them 
give  victory  and  triumph  to  himself.  On  this  the  play  was 
got  up  there,  and  Garrick's  Bayes. (not  Buckingham's,  as  it 
then  appeared)  was  pushed  on  several  nights.  Thus  The  Re- 
hearsal was  no  longer  considered  as  a  witty  satire  on  the  foibles 
and  faults  of  authors  and  a  reproof  of  the  town  for  their  false 
taste  of  the  drama.  It  became  a  motley  medley  of  buffoonery 
to  explode  the  actors. 

But  where  did  he  attack  'em?  On  their  weak  side  indeed, 
where  they  could  not  be  on  their  guard.  Instead  of  crit- 
ically pointing  out  their  want  of  taste  or  judgment,  he  cruelly 
turned  the  whole  artillery  of  his  mockery  against  their  nat- 
ural defects  or  such  particularities  of  voice  which  did  not  mis- 
become them;  nor  met  with  reproof  till  his  vice  of  "  taking- 
off,"  as  it  is  called,  became  the  foolish  fashion  and  taught 
school-boys  to  be  critics. 


472  APPENDIX. 

His  attempt  to  prejudice  the  million  against  his  brethren 
had  its  desired  effect :  several  were  hurt  by  it.  The  late  Mr. 
Delane  in  particular,  a  man  of  great  modesty,  was  so  shocked 
every  time  he  came  upon  the  stage  after  it  that  new  terrors 
seized  him ;  he  could  not  get  the  better  of  his  weakness,  so 
became  a  votary  to  Bacchus  and  sacrificed  his  life  at  that 
shrine.  If,  poor  man  !  he  had  been  master  of  temper  and 
resolution  enough  to  have  roused  a  proper  spirit  on  this  occa- 
sion, and  had  sought  the .  improvement  he  was  capable  of  in 
his  profession,  he  might  still  have  been  giving  pleasure  to  the 
town  in  several  characters,  such  as  Lord  Hastings,  Pyrrhus, 
Varanes,  Bajazet,  Antony,  Hotspur,  and  Alexander;  to  these 
his  power  of  voice,  his  comeliness  of  countenance,  his  grace- 
ful action,  and  dignity  of  deportment  rendered  him  more 
equal  than  the  actor  who  so  wantonly  attacked  him  ;  in  which 
attack  the  mimic  showed  he  could  only  transiently  hit  on  some 
peculiar  tones  of  the  other's  voice.  It  had  been  better  for 
this  mimic  could  he  have  equalled  the  actor  in  all  his  hap- 
pier gifts  of  nature. 

As  this  actor  was  thus  indulged  in  his  mimicking  the  de- 
fects of  Nature,  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  point  out  the 
less  pardonable  errors  of  judgment  or  more  unpardonable 
tricks  of  the  player  knowingly  introduced  against  the  convic- 
tion of  sense  and  judgment — those  modern  claptraps  of  the 
stage  where  reason  is  sacrificed  to  vanity ;  where  vehemence 
supplies  the  place  of  spirit,  and  Extravagances  are  called 
beauties ;  where  mouthing  and  ranting  pass  for  elocution,  and 
the  voice  is  so  injudiciously  forced  that  the  power  is  lost  ere 
half  the  part  is  played.  A  false  jeu  de  theatre  becomes  too 
often  the  vice  of  some  present  actors,  but  they  are  happy  if 
they  can  thereby  raise  a  clap  from  the  million ;  no  matter 
whether  the  applause  is  just,  so  it  be  loud.  When  stage- 
tricks  become  so  frequent,  may  we  not  say, 

"  Nature's  forsook  ;  our  new  theatric  art, 
Aiming  to  strike  the  eye,  neglects  the  heart"  ? 

The  actor  I'm  about  to  speak  of  has  undoubtedly  several 
natural  requisites  and  some  acquired  talents,  and  altogether 


APPENDIX.  473 

is  justly  deemed  a  good  comedian.  His  performance  of 
Kitely,  in  Every  Man  in  His  Humor,  is  so  excellent  a  piece 
of  Nature,  so  truly  comic,  it  makes  amends  for  all  the  farce 
with  which  that  indelicate  piece  of  low  humor  abounds.  But 
is  not  his  chief  talent  comedy — not  of  genteel  cast,  but  of  the 
lower  kind  ?  This,  perhaps,  by  a  candid  examen  of  his  abil- 
ities and  execution,  may  be  made  appear,  as  may  his  errors 
in  tragedy.  Some  of  those  errors  a  gentleman  of  wit  and 
great  vivacity  and  admirable  mimic  has  pleasantly  pointed 
out  and  humorously  exploded.  The  correction  was  of  use 
to  the  actor;  perhaps  future  remarks  may  be  of  further  use 
to  him. 

If  we  look  into  his  favorite  character  of  Ranger,  shall  we 
not  find  less  of  the  gentleman  in  the  performance  than  the 
author  intended  in -the  writing?  That  he  is  exceeding  lively 
and  entertaining  is  certain ;  but  that  he  is  sometimes  even 
most  absurdly  rude  will  appear  by  only  remarking  his  un- 
gentlemanlike  behavior  in  one  single  scene.  He  meets  with 
Frankly  and  Bellamy,  both  supposed  to  be  gentlemen — Frankly 
particularly,  a  man  of  fashion  and  fortune.  This  very  gentle- 
man, without  any  regard  to  decency  or  good  manners,  Ranger 
makes  his  leaning-stock,  and,  lolling  a  considerable  time  on  his 
shoulder,  indulges  himself  in  being  pleasant  on  Bellamy.  Can 
any  friendship  or  intimacy  tolerate  such  ill-bred  freedom  in  a 
man — to  consult  his  own  ease  without  feeling  the  pain  he  must 
give  his  superior?  Oh,  but  it's  a  pretty  attitude,  forsooth  !  He 
caught  it,  perhaps,  from  a  French  print,  where  a  gentleman 
leans  against  the  high  base  af  a  pillar  in  a  garden  ;  it  took  his 
fancy  probably,  and  this  attitudinarian  was  resolved  to  intro- 
duce it,  no  matter  for  the  impropriety  of  making  a  gentleman 
his  lolling-post. 

This  is  but  one  of  the  many  studied  absurdities.  How 
ridiculous  might  be  the  consequence  if  the  person  who 
plays  Frankly  were  to  give  him  the  slip  and  drop  Master 
Ranger  to  the  ground  !  Though  this  might  become  Frank- 
ly as  a  humorous  reproof  of  Ranger's  rudeness,  yet  the 
poor  player,  whom  necessity  has  taught  to  prefer  slavery 
to  the  liberty  of  starving,  must  rather  seem  to  think  himself 
40* 


474  APPENDIX. 

honored  by  this  impertinent  freedom,  as  it  comes  from  the 
manager. 

That  he  displays  in  Archer  great  vivacity  must  be  granted, 
but  that  the  gentleman  appears  through  the  footman,  or  that 
his  deportment  and  address  are  equal  to  the  character  when 
he  puts  on  the  habit  of  the  gentleman,  is  what  I  never  heard 
asserted.  This,  and  the  still  superior  characters  in  genteel 
comedy,  seem  now  quite  lost.  We  have  strutting  flashes  and 
finical  fribbles,  pert  prigs,  bold  bucks,  and  dapper  smarts; 
but  when  do  we  meet  on  the  stage  a  general  character,  sup- 
ported with  a  graceful  ease  and  elegancy  expressive  of  the  man 
of  quality,  or  that  gives  any  idea  of  a  well-bred  person  used 
to  polite  assemblies  or  the  manners  of  a  drawing-room  ?  Who 
is  there  at  the  head  of  the  stage  to  set  the  example?  We  have 
seen  a  comedy  revived  and  played  to  a  surprising  number  of 
audiences  wherein  the  person  who  performed  the  principal 
character  was  in  an  error  from  beginning  to  end,  and  yet  the 
playhouse-puffers  extolled  it  as  the  master-stroke  of  comedy. 
They  rung  the  changes  on  the  words  "Amazing!"  "Great!" 
"Surprising!"  "Fine!"  "  Immense!"  "Pleasant!"  "Pro- 
digious!" "Inimitable!"  till  every  ear  was  tired  with  the 
sound.  Any  one  who  never  saw  the  performance  might  have 
concluded  from  report  that  the  fulsome  flattery  a  certain 
writer  bestowed  on  him  was  but  truth  when  he  said,  "This 
actor  was  not  only  the  most  excellent  of  his  profession  that 
ever  was,  but  that  ever  would  be."  I  imagine  ere  I  name 
the  title  of  this  comedy  most  people  will  guess  I  mean  The 
Chances. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  the  poet  in  this  play,  in  his  wan- 
tonness of  humor  and  spirit,  seemed  determined  to  declare 
open  war  upon  decency,  and,  scorning  double  entendre,  speaks 
plain  English.  The  chief  business  of  the  drama  is  barefaced 
prostitution.  It  was  written  by  Fletcher,  but  it  was  so  well 
suited  to  the  taste  of  the  loose  wits  of  King  Charles  the  Sec- 
ond's court  that  the  witty  debauchee  Buckingham  thought  it 
worth  -his  revisal  and  alteration. 

Mr.  Pope  elegantly  inveighs  against  plays  of  this  cast,  and 
justly  satirizes  the  taste  of  those  times,  when  the  obscenity 


APPENDIX.  47$ 

of  a  piece  was  no  objection  if  supported  pleasantly.  Per- 
haps this  play  was  in  his  thoughts  when  he  says — 

"  The  fair  sat  panting  at  a  courtier's  play, 
And  not  a  mask  went  unimproved  away ; 
The  modest  fan  was  lifted  up  no  more, 
And  virgins  smiled  at  what  they  blushed  before. 
These  monsters,  critics,  with  your  darts  engage — 
Here  point  your  thunder,  here  direct  your  rage." 

The  revival  of  this  play  undoubtedly  laid  the  sober  part  of 
the  town  under  no  small  obligation  to  the  immaculate  manager. 

But,  however  incorrect  or  loose  the  plan  of  this  play  appears, 
the  author  certainly  drew  his  characters  from  Nature,  and  sup- 
ports 'em  well — servetur  ad  unum. 

I  apprehend  that  it  readily  appears  to  any  one  who  reads 
this  play  that  in  Don  John  the  poet  meant  to  give  us  a  spirited 
representation  of  a  young  nobleman  on  his  travels.  How- 
ever gay  his  youth  or  wild  his  constitution,  he  entertains  high 
notions  of  honor ;  gallantry  is  but  a  secondary  principle  of  his 
character.  He  never  deviates  from  the  stately  pride  of  a 
Spaniard,  though  he  receives  a  challenge  and  fights  a  duel  with 
a  nonchalance  of  temper  that  nothing  but  the  greatest  courage 
can  support.  To  personate  this  noble,  joyous  voluptuary 
there  should  be  comeliness,  grace,  a  spirited  dignity,  and  ease; 
he  should  appear  the  rake  of  quality,  not  a  pert  prig  let  loose 
on  a  holiday.  In  his  most  unguarded  frolics  we  should  not 
lose  sight  of  the  nobleman.  In  this  light,  I  am  informed,  did 
the  character  of  Don  John  appear  when  the  great  Betterton 
played  it ;  in  this  light  have  I  beheld  it  when  performed  by 
that  master  of  genteel  comedy,  Mr.  Wilks. 

But,  as  my  friend  the  doctor  says,  "The  college  have 
altered  all  that  now,  and  proceed  upon  an  entire  new  prin- 
ciple." If  an  actor  finds  himself  unequal  to  a  part,  why 
will  he  undertake  a  task  imposed  on  him  only  by  his  own 
vanity?  But,  says  this  arch-manager,  "  'Tis  the  business  of 
comedy  to  make  people  laugh.  I  can  fill  the  part  with  pleas- 
antry, though  I  neglect  propriety ;  I  have  fashion  on  my  side, 
and  a  faction  to  support  me :  none  dare  dispute  my  taste  or 


476  APPENDIX. 

power.  And  if  I  can't  rise  to  Don  John,  I'll  bring  Don 
John  down  to  me."  So  enter  Ranger  in  a  Spanish  jacket. 
Had  it  been  a  harlequin  jacket,  it  would  not  have  misbecome 
the  part  as  it  is  now  new  modelled,  where  Nature  is  neglected, 
the  gentleman  entirely  dropt,  and  lively  absurdities  with  brisk 
buffooneries  make  up  the  strange  melange.  'Tis  no  longer 
the  noble  Don  John ;  'tis  a  little  Jack-a-dandy. 

To  point  out  particulars  where  the  whole  is  absurd  were 
endless.  One  is  as  good  as  a  hundred.  Only  think  of  this 
young  Spanish  nobleman,  because  his  ear  is  caught  by  the 
sound  of  a  fiddle  from  the  window  of  a  tavern,  being  tempt- 
ed to  give  you  a  touch  of  a  hornpipe  in  the  middle  of  the 
street !  Is  it  in  Nature  to  suppose  any  gentleman  in  his 
senses  could  be  guilty  of  so  ridiculous  an  absurdity?  How 
must  the  stage  improve  from  these  lively  specimens  of  gen- 
teel comedy !  When  an  actor  presumes  to  substitute  the 
farcical  liberties  of  a  harlequin  instead  of  a  just  representation 
of  Nature,  what  must  be  his  ignorance  or  what  his  assur-, 
ance !  What  should  be  his  reward  if  he  thus  deviates  from 
the  unerring  rule  that  great  judge  of  Nature,  Shakespeare,  lays 
down  for  his  direction  when  he  admonishes  the  player  "  to 
o'erstep  not  the  modesty  of  Nature,  .  .  .  whose  end,  both  at 
the  first  and  now,  was  and  is,  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up 
to  Nature."  .  .  .  "This  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off,  though 
it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but  make  the  judicious 
grieve;  the  censure  of  which  one  ought  to  o'ersway  a  whole 
theatre  of  others  ' '  ? 

As  this  genius  has  a  knack  of  slicing  comedies  into  farces 
and  frittering  Shakespeare  into  drolls,  pastorals,  and  operas, 
as  we  have  many  instances  of  his  happy  talents  for  altering 
and  embellishing  old  plays,  'tis  a  pity  he  did  not  make  a  new 
one  of  The  Chances.  Had  he  but  given  English  names  to  the 
characters  and  removed  the  scene  to  London,  this,  with  the 
new  manner  of  acting,  might  have  made  it  pass  for  a  new 
comedy  under  the  well-adapted  title  of  The  Delights  of  Dame 
Douglass ;  or,  The  Frolics  of  Master  jfacky  in  Covent  Garden. 

Though  I  have  as  quick  a  perception  of  the  merits  of  this 
actor  as  his  greatest  admirers,  and  have  not  less  pleasure  from 


APPENDIX.  477 

his  performance  when  he  condescends  to  pursue  simple  Na- 
ture, yet  I  am  not  therefore  to  be  blind  to  his  studied  tricks, 
his  over-fondness  for  extravagant  attitudes,  frequent  affected 
starts,  convulsive  twitchings,  jerkings  of  the  body,  sprawling 
of  the  fingers,  slapping  the  breast  and  pockets — a  set  of  me- 
chanical motions  in  constant  use,  the  caricatures  of  gesture 
suggested  by  pert  vivacity ;  his  pantomimical  manner  of  act- 
ing every  word  in  a  sentence;  his  unnatural  pauses  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  ;  his  forced  conceits ;  his  wilful  neglect 
of  harmony,  even  where  the  round  period  of  a  well-expressed 
noble  sentiment  demands  a  graceful  cadence  in  the  delivery. 
These,  with  his  mistaken  notions  of  some  characters  and  many 
other  vices  of  the  stage  which  his  popularity  has  supported 
him  in,  I  shall  take  a  proper  opportunity  of  remarking  in  a 
more  particular  manner,  and  laying  such  observation  before 
the  superior  judgment  of  the  town. 

An  actor  who  is  a  thorough  master  of  his  part,  not  only 
in  point  of  memory,  but  by  having  clearly  conceived  and 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  sentiment  and  expression,  will 
stand  in  no  need  of  premeditated  gesture  or  attitude;  the 
words  and  situation  will  of  themselves  suggest  'em  to  him, 
and  they  will  appear  the  more  natural,  and  consequently  have 
the  greater  effect,  for  their  not  having  the  air  of  study  and 
preparation.  The  various  inflexions  of  voice,  the  stress  of 
the  emphasis,  the  just  proportion  of  pathos,  neither  carried 
improperly  into  rant  nor  over-tame,  but  governed  by  the 
occasion, — all  these  will  rise  so  naturally  that  the  part  will 
seem  to  act  the  actor,  instead  of  being  acted  by  him.  The 
emotions,  in  short,  should  begin  at  the  heart,  and  there's  no 
doubt  of  the  voice  and  body  receiving  such  right  directions 
from  it  as  can  never  fail  of  making  proper  impressions;  whilst 
moving  of  the  head,  legs,  and  arms  by  rule  and  compass  must 
have  comparatively  a  cold,  insipid,  and  even  a  ridiculous  effect. 

Nor  is  this  complaint  a  new  one.  Even  in  Aristotle's  days 
there  was  an  actor  called  Callipides  who  used  to  prefix  his 
motions  before  he  came  on  the  stage ;  the  affectation  of  it 
was  so  palpable  that  Minesius,  his  rival,  nicknamed  him  "the 
ape,"  from  the  disfigurement  which  the  characters  he  played 


APPENDIX. 

received  from  his  trickful  imitation.  I  call  it  "trickful," 
because  all  those  forelaid  attitudes,  or  puggifications,  are  the 
poor  arts  of  those  who  are  not  capable  of  exhibiting — or, 
what  is  still  worse,  are  insensible  of — the  beauty  of  Nature. 
Our  stage  in  its  present  state  affords  more  examples  of  those 
who  follow  the  manner  of  a  Callipides  than  of  a  Betterton  or 
a  Booth,  who  were  not  above  receiving  their  directions  from 
Nature,  that  great  guide  and  president  over  all  the  imitative 
arts,  and  especially  the  theatre,  from  whence,  however,  she 
has  been  so  long  banished. 

To  this  extravagance  of  behavior  in  acting,  and  to  the  ap- 
plause thus  frequently  and  easily  gained,  is  it  not  owing  that 
the  epidemical  distemper  of  "spouting"  (according  to  the 
modern  phrase)  has  spread  itself  so  widely  ?  When  young 
men  cease  to  consider  acting  as  an  art — an  art,  too,  that  re- 
quires perhaps  more  natural  requisites,  more  acquired  ones, 
more  time,  experience,  study,  and  knowledge,  than  many 
others — we  need  not  be  surprised  that  so  many  candidates 
for  fame  are  so  ready  to  expose  themselves.  They  regard  it 
not  in  that  light ;  they  judge,  from  the  extraordinary  exam- 
ple set  'em,  that  a  little  ranting  or  mouthing,  a  start  or  two, 
an  outre  attitude,  and  a  few  harlequinade  tricks  are  all  the 
requisites  to  make  a  complete  actor.  And  as  managers,  not 
so  careful  of  the  gradual  improvement  of  the  stage  as  greedy 
of  present  gain,  too  frequently  allow  raw,  unexperienced  men 
to  start  out  in  top  characters  (however  unequal  to  'em  or  hope- 
less of  improvement),  with  a  view  that  the  bare  novelty  may 
draw  an  audience — and  as  such  heroes,  made  in  a  hurry,  are 
too  ready  to  mistake  the  encouragement  of  an  indulgent  au- 
dience for  an  applause  due  to  their  superior  merit — what  hope 
is  there  of  seeing  a  set  of  good  actors  completely  and  regular- 
ly formed  ? 

Formerly,  actors  by  degrees  came  forward ;  they  began  at 
the  lower  round  of  the  ladder.  But  now  they  take  a  flying 
leap  to  the  top  at  once,  though,  indeed,  they  generally  drop 
as  suddenly  to  the  bottom.  To  this  misconduct  of  the  man- 
agers and  bad  example  of  the  performers  is  it  not  owing  that 
such  a  number  of  young  men  neglect  their  various  professions, 


APPENDIX.  479 

for  which  their  talents  are  more  happily  adapted,  to  follow 
this  ignis-fatuus  of  stage  fame  ?  They  think  of  nothing  less 
than  to  be  applauded  heroes  on  the  stage,  and  from  thence,  like 
their  cousin  Sir  Francis  (for  they  are  all  nearly  related  to  the 
Wrongheads),  propose  to  indulge  themselves  in  the  easy-gained 
income  of  a  trifling  thousand  a  year,  "just  to  be  doing  with 
till  somewhat  better  falls  in."  Though  a  few,  a  very  few,  may 
have  succeeded,  yet,  alas !  what  a  number  of  young  people, 
disappointed  of  these  flattering  views,  have  in  the  end  found 
themselves  literally  actor-bit !  By  this  delusion  many  young 
men,  to  the  grief  of  their  parents  and  friends,  have  been  lost 
to  the  world,  who,  had  they  followed  the  more  eligible  pro- 
fessions they  were  designed  for,  might  have  lived  to  have 
been  a  comfort  to  their  friends,  a  joy  to  their  families,  an 
honor  to  themselves,  and  respectable  members  of  public 
society. 

I  have  heard  of  an  academy  intended  to  consist  of  a  select 
number  of  gentlemen  eminenj  for  their  taste  in  the  belles  let- 
tres,  and  some  whose  works  have  the  deserved  estimation  of 
the  public;  on  which  plan  it  will  be  proposed  to  support 
authors  of  merit;  to  give  praise  to  the  deserving  and  due 
censure  to  the  dull  and  presuming ;  to  show  the  many  why 
they  are  pleased  and  with  what  they  ought  to  be  delighted. 
May  that  laudable  scheme  succeed,  and  prevent  the  depravity 
we  are  falling  into,  by  rescuing  sound  sense  and  morality  from 
the  barbarous  attacks  of  ignorance  and  Gothism  !  I  have  also 
heard  that  a  weekly  paper,  under  their  inspection,  will  be  pub- 
lished, entitled  The  Theatre,  wherein  no  mean  arts  will  be  used 
to  prejudice  the  public  in  favor  of  an  unworthy  author  or  actor, 
nor  will  any  writer  or  performer  of  any  degree  of  merit  be  de- 
preciated through  the  wantonness  of  mirth  or  to  gratify  the 
vanity  or  spleen  of  another.  Whenever  this  paper  appears, 

Dread  it,  ye  dunces  and  dramatic  drones ! 
Tremble,  ye  tyrants  on  theatric  thrones  ! 

Thus  may  the  encroaching  power  of  managers  be  properly 
checked,  and  rational  entertainments  alone  become  the  polite 
amusement  of  the  town ;  thus  may  our  giddy  and  unwary 


APPENDIX. 

youth  be  cautioned  against  the  dangerous  illusions  of  False- 
hood, who,  in  her  gaudy  trappings,  oft  bewilders  their  im- 
aginations and  enchantingly  entices  'em  to  become  her  ad- 
mirers, while  they  totally  neglect  the  simply  elegant  beauties 
of  unaffected  Truth.  'Till  this  plan  is  put  into  execution — 
and  I  hope  the  interim  will  be  but  short — permit  me  humbly 
to  propose  an  expedient  for  the  immediate  correction  of  the- 
atrical misconduct. 

Many  public  companies  have  proper  officers  appointed  to 
inspect  their  conduct — some  have  their  governors,  some  their 
directors — and  our  universities  have  their  visitors.  Since, 
then,  these  patentee  potentates,  out  of  their  immense  human- 
ity and  goodness,  will  allow  me  time  from  my  avocation  as 
an  actor,  what  if  I  become  the  volunteer  visitor  of  the  theatres, 
to  look  into  and  report  their  proceedings,  whether  worthy  of 
praise  or  censure  ?  This  is  a  post  to  which  I  can  appoint  my- 
self. And  if  the  thought  meets  with  the  approbation  of  my 
honored  friends  and  patrons,  I  shall  endeavor  to  discharge 
that  office  to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  with  impartiality,  integ- 
rity, and  justice.  Thus,  in  spite  of  their  unjust  oppression,  I 
may  still  continue — what  I  have  ever  thought  it  an  honor  to 
be — the  most  obliged,  devoted  servant  of  the  public.  As  a 
theatrical  visitor,  then,  give  me  leave  to  lay  before  you  some 
of  the  studied  absurdities  or  Callipidean  ape-tricks  which  are 
often  substituted  instead  of  the  instinctive,  unaffected  actions 
which  simple  Nature  would  have  directed. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  pantomimical  acting  of  every  word  in  a 
sentence.  When  Benedict  says,  "  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle 
like  a  cat,  and  shoot  me  !"  methinks  this  slight,  short  sentence 
requires  not  such  a  variety  of  action  as  minutely  to  describe 
the  cat  being  clapped  into  the  bottle,  then  being  hung  up, 
and  the  further  painting  of  the  man  shooting  at  it.  But  such 
things  we  have  seen — nay,  sometimes  seen  applauded. 

Observe  the  golden  rule  of  not  too  much ;  this  rule  every 
actor  should  pay  regard  to.  But  how  is  this  observed  when 
Richard  (as  I  have  seen  it  played),  in  his  very  first  words, 
wherein  he  describes  his  sullen  mood  of  mind,  his  restlessness 
of  spirit  unemployed  in  war,  his  conscious  unfitness  to  join  in 


APPEND  TX.  481 

the  sportive,  piping,  medley  amusements  of  idle  peace,  ironi- 
cally says, 

"  I  have  no  delights  to  pass  away  my  hours, 
Unless  to  see  my  shadow  in  the  sun 
And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity." 

This  idea  of  descanting  on  his  own  deformity  is  what  his  hurt 
imagination  would  naturally  turn  to  from  the  moment  it  occurs 
to  him.  But  for  the  sake  of  an  attitude  which  is  sure  to  be 
dwelt  on  till  the  audience  clap,  this  sentence  is  commonly 
closed  with  an  action  of  pointing  to  the  ground  and  fixing 
the  eye  thereon  for  some  time,  as  if  Richard  had  a  real  delight 
in  ruminating  on  his  uncouth  person.  Again,  after  he  has 
wooed  and  (to  his  own  surprise)  has  won  the  widow  Anne, 
can  we  suppose  that  Richard  is  such  a  fool  as  really  to  think 
himself  comely  of  person  when  he,  exulting  on  his  success, 
in  wanton  pleasantry  breaks  out — 

"  My  dukedom  to  a  widow's  chastity ! 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while  "? 

Or  when  he  says, 

"  I'll  have  my  chambers  lined  with  looking-glass, 
And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors 
To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body  "  ? 

Richard  is  not  such  a  simpleton  seriously  to  intend  this — -'tis 
laughter  all,  and  mockery  of  the  widow's  weakness — yet  I 
have  seen  a  Richard  when  he  makes  his  exit  with  these  lines — 

"  Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  salute  my  glass, 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass," — 

this  rum-duke  Richard  has  gone  halting  off,  all  the  way  look- 
ing at  and  admiring  his  supposed  shadow  on  the  ground. 

Is  this  being  the  actor  ?  Is  it  not  buffoonery  ?  But  what 
shall  we  think  of  a  Richard  who  in  the  last  act,  when  he  is 
met  by  Norfolk  in  the  field  at  the  head  of  the  army,  instead 
of  assuming  the  air  of  gallantry  and  intrepidity  which  marks 
the  character  of  Richard,— what  shall  we  think  of  a  Richard 
41  2F 


482  APPENDIX. 

who  bounces  on  like  a  madman  and  bellows  out,  "Well,  Nor- 
folk, what  thinkest  thou  now?"  Might  not  Master  Norfolk 
reply,  "I  think  you  are  mad,  sir  "?  But  the  mouthing  rant 
infected  the  inferior  performer,  who  in  return  roared  out, 
"That  we  shall  conquer,  sir." 

Nay,  to  that  extravagance  is  this  mockery  of  spirit  carried 
on  that  Richard  reads  the  few  lines  Norfolk  puts  into  his  hand 
in  a  vociferous,  angry  tone,  as  if  he  knew  their  meaning  ere 
he  saw  them,  though  the  very  lines  that  follow  show  that  Rich- 
ard is  unmoved  by  'em  and  scornfully  disregards  'em:  "A 
weak  invention  of  the  enemy!"  But  that  cool  scorn  I  have 
heard  ranted  out  as  if  poor  Richard  was  quite  out  of  his  wits. 
What  consistency  of  character  is  here  preserved,  or  what  re- 
gard paid  to  Nature?  Is  it  not  mumrnery  all? 

The  frequent  starts  with  which  our  stage-performances  abound 
at  present  are  not  unworthy  notice.  They  are  so  common  that 
they  sometimes  tire  the  eye,  and  often  so  improper  that  they 
offend  the  understanding.  Some  of  this  sort  we  have  seen  in 
Romeo.  This  unhappy  lover,  when  in  the  last  act  he  is  in- 
formed of  the  death  of  his  beloved  Juliet,  is  at  once  struck 
with  a  deep  despair,  and  immediately  determines  that  night 
to  embrace  her,  even  in  death.  He  coolly  resolves  on  taking 
poison,  and  sends  a  letter  to  inform  his  father  of  the  cause  of 
his  death.  He  has  but  little  time  to  execute  this  in,  the  night 
being  far  spent,  yet  the  actor  can  find  time,  it  seems,  between 
his  quitting  the  apothecary  and  his  going  to  the  tomb,  to  shift 
his  clothes,  that  he  may  die,  with  the  decency  of  a  malefactor, 
in  a  suit  of  black.  This  trick  of  stage-drapery  puts  one  in 
mind  of  Miss  Notable,  a  young  jilting  coquette,  who,  when 
she's  informed  that  one  of  her  young  lovers  is  wounded  in  a 
duel  on  her  account,  amidst  her  affected  violent  exclamations 
of  grief  says,  "I'll  go  and  see  the  dear  creature,  but  it  shall 
be  in  an  undress;  'twill  be  proper,  at  least,  to  give  my  grief 
the  appearance  of  as  much  disorder  as  possible.  Yes,  I'll 
change  my  dress  immediately."  And  so  she  does.  But  what 
need  for  Romeo  to  do  this  ?  Has  he  leisure,  or  would  he  be- 
stow a  thought  on  such  a  trifle  ?  Well,  but  he's  now  going  to 
the  tomb;  his  first  thought  is  to  despatch  his  servant,  from 


APPENDIX.  483 

whom  he  conceals  his  real  intent,  and  threatens  him  to  pre- 
sume to  watch  him  at  peril  of  his  life.  Yet  on  the  opening 
of  the  scene  the  actor  with  folded  arms  advances  about  three 
or  four  steps,  then  jumps  and  starts  into  an  attitude  of  surprise. 
At  what  ?  Why,  at  the  sight  of  a  monument  he  went  to  look 
for.  And  there  he  stands  till  a  clap  from  the  audience  relieves 
him  from  his  post.  Is  not  this  forced?  Is  it  not  misplaced? 
Is  it  not  as  improper  as  ranting  loudly  those  threats  to  his  ser- 
vant, which  should  be  delivered  in  an  under-voice  expressive 
of  terror,  but  not  mouthed  out  loud  enough  to  alarm  the 
watch  ? 

I  would  also  submit  it  to  the  judgment  of  the  public  whether 
a  favorite  attitude  into  which  Romeo  throws  himself  on  the 
appearance  of  Paris  is  a  beauty  or  an  absurdity.  Romeo  is  a 
gentleman,  and  has  a  sword  by  his  side.  Education  is  a  sec- 
ond nature :  may  we  not  reasonably  suppose  that  on  his  being 
diverted  from  his  purpose  of  opening  the  tomb,  when  called 
on  by  Paris  he  would  immediately  drop  that  unwieldy  instru- 
ment the  iron  crow  and  have  recourse  to  his  sword  ?  Would 
not  this  be  the  instinctive  resource  of  the  gentleman?  But 
then  this  Callipidean  attitude  would  be  lost  in  which  Romeo 
now  stands  long  enough  to  give  Paris  time  to  run  him  through 
the  body,  which  would  be  justifiable  when  a  man  saw  such  a 
weapon  raised  by  an  enemy  to  dash  out  his  brains.  No  won-- 
der  the  generality  of  an  audience  clap,  as  they  may  well  be 
astonished  to  see  my  little  Romeo  wield  this  massy  instrument 
with  such  dexterity.  But  their  admiration  would  cease  when 
let  into  the  secret  that  this  seeming  iron  crow  is  really  but  a 
painted  wooden  one.  Were  it  not  so,  it  would  be  as  impossi- 
ble for  the  fictitious  Romeo  to  manage  it  as  it  is  improbable 
the  real  Romeo  would  have  made  such  a  use  of  it.  The 
author  did  not  intend  he  should,  since  he  makes  'em  both 
engage  with  their  swords,  as  gentlemen  naturally  would. 
######** 
During  this  ceremony  news  came  from  earth  that  the  Eng- 
lish opera  called  The  Tempest  was  in  no  danger  of  pestering 
the  town  many  nights,  notwithstanding  the  puffs  and  orders 
to  support  it.  This  instance  of  returning  taste,  and  the  proper 


484  APPENDIX. 

contempt  the  public  showed  for  these  manglers  of  Shakespeare 
by  forbearing  to  attend  these  savage  scalpers  of  this  immortal 
Bard,  diffused  a  general  joy  amongst  all  the  connoisseurs  be- 
low. A  loud  applause  re-echoed  through  the  place,  and  wak- 
ened me.  Yet,  waking,  I  found  it  was  not  all  a  dream.  The 
public  reassume  their  right  to  judge ;  they  no  longer  impli- 
citly approve  all  the  trash  this  crafty  costardmonger  would 
impose  on  'em,  nor  on  his  ipse  dixit  will  accept  of  a  green 
crab  in  lieu  of  a  pineapple.  Even  the  last  new  tragedy, 
though  paraded  into  the  world  with  the  usual  puffs  of  "its 
excelling  all  that  went  before  it,"  did  not  like  its  predecessors 
run  rapid  on,  but  limpingly  endeavored  to  get  forward.  At 
length  we  found  (as  appeared  by  the  Public  Advertiser*}— 

"  Great  Athelstan  grew  sick — oh  fatal  stroke  ! — 
Of  empty  seats  and  boxes  unbespoke." 

A  fresh  instance  of  the  unbiased  judgment  of  the  public 
has  appeared  in  their  candid  reception  of  Mr.  Barry  in  the 
character  of  King  Lear,  and  the  universal  applause  they  have 
bestowed  on  his  excellent  performance.  This  high-drawn  cha- 
racter has  been  long  the  admiration  of  the  public.  One  actor 
having  the  sole  possession  of  it  for  these  fourteen  years  past, 
and  having  surprised  the  town  by  his  spirited  and  early  per- 
formance of  it,  most  people  were  so  prejudiced  in  his  behalf 
that  many  censured  Mr.  Barry  for  the  undertaking  previous  to 
his  appearing  therein  ;  nay,  several  as  rashly  as  ungenerously 
(on  notice  given  of  the  intended  performance)  did  not  stick 
to  call  it  an  impudent  attempt.  So  strong  is  prepossession 
that  some  good-natured  persons  had  their  doubts  concerning 
him,  but,  to  do  him  justice,  his  performance  has  cleared  'em 
all.  So  whimsical  were  some  of  these  prejudiced  persons  in 
their  objections  that  they  even  urged  he  was  too  tall  for  the 
part;  yet  I  think  'tis  generally  allowed  that  the  advantage  of 
tall  stature  is  a  beauty  in  Nature ;  it  expresses  a  kind  of  nat- 
ural dignity.  When  we  read  the  history  of  any  monarch  or 
hero,  we  seldom  annex  the  idea  of  a  little  man  unless  some 
passage  in  the  history  particularly  marks  him  as  such.  Nor 


APPENDIX.  485 

have  I  ever  heard  of  any  dramatic  law  or  act  of  Parliament 
to  reduce  our  kings  to  the  low  standard  in  which  they  are 
sometimes  represented. 

I  mean  no  reflections  hereby  on  any  one  who  may  be  dis- 
qualified, as  I  myself,  for  a  grenadier,  nor  do  I  presume  to 
hint  that  a  great  mind  may  not  inhabit  the  small  body  of  a 
man  even  of  but  five  feet  five  inches.  Long  since  it  was  re- 
marked that  "  daring  souls  often  dwell  in  little  men."  Not 
to  give  praise  to  the  little  gentleman  for  his  performance  in 
some  parts  of  this  character  were  doing  him  injustice ;  there 
is  a  quick-spirited  manner  in  his  execution  that  often  sets  off 
many  passages  therein.  But  when  we  consider  the  chief  cha- 
racterisic  of  Lear  to  be  pride  and  impatience — a  kingly  pride, 
hitherto  uncontrolled,  and  an  impetuous  temper,  as  soon  sus- 
ceptible of  anger,  rage,  and  fury  as  flax  is  ready  to  catch  fire, 
and  in  the  expression  of  those  passions  as  quick  and  rapid  as 
the  lightning's  flash, — if  this  is  the  case  (and  I  have  often  heard 
it  allowed),  must  we  not  give  the  preference  to  Mr.  Barry,  not 
only  in  majestic  deportment  and  gracefulness  of  action,  but 
also  in  his  manner  of  imprecating  the  curse  this  injured  mon- 
arch throws  out  against  his  unnatural  daughter  ?  Can  the  actor 
be  too  rapid  in  the  delivery  ?  Do  not  long  pauses  damp  the 
fire  of  it,  like  cold  water  dropped  thereon?  "Tis  hasty,  rash, 
and  uttered  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  passion.  Too  long  a 
preparation  for  it  seems  not  consistent  with  Lear's  character  ; 
'tis  here  unnatural.  Such  long  pauses  give  him  time  to  re- 
flect, which  the  hasty  Lear  is  not  apt  to  do  till  'tis  too  late. 
This  philosophic  manner  would  become  a  man  who  took  time 
to  recollect,  which  if  Lear  did,  would  not  the  good  king,  the 
o'erkind  father,  change  this  dire  curse  into  a  fervent  prayer 
for  his  child's  repentance  and  amendment?  To  prepare  this 
curse  with  an  overstrained  look  of  solemn  address,  long  dwelt 
on  before  the  curse  begins,  makes  what  the  author  designed 
to  excite  pity  and  terror  become  detestable  and  horrible.  So 
dire  is  the  curse  Nature  can  scarce  endure  it  unless  delivered 
in  the  rapid  manner,  the  wild  transport  of  the  choleric  king, 
which  sudden  and  unchecked  passion  would  surely  give  it. 
•When  it  appears  premeditated  it  speaks  rancor,  spleen,  and 
41* 


486  APPENDIX. 

malice,  a  cool  revenge,  not  a  burst  of  passion  from  an  o'er- 
charged  heart.  Whether  this  remark  is  just  is  left  to  the  de- 
termination of  the  judicious  public. 

I  have  seen  both  these  gentlemen  play  King  Lear  within 
a  few  days  of  one  another.  I  must  confess  I  had  pleasure 
from  the  performance  of  the  lesser  monarch  in  several  pas- 
sages. My  expectations  had  indeed  been  greatly  raised  by 
the  many  encomiums  lavished  on  him,  but  were  not  answered 
to  my  wish.  There  was  a  petiteness  attended  the  performance 
which  I  thought  not  quite  equal  to  the  character — his  beha- 
vior often  liable  to  censure,  particularly,  I  thought,  at  the  end 
of  those  scenes  where  the  unnatural  behavior  of  his  daughters 
works  him  up  almost  to  frenzy.  Do  not  the  preceding  and 
following  parts  point  out  to  us  that  Lear  rushes  wildly  from 
beneath  the  roof  where  he  has  been  so  unhospitably  treated  ? 
Why,  then,  is  he  to  sink  into  the  arms  of  his  attendants  ? 
Thus  helpless  as  he  there  affects  to  appear,  though  his  daugh- 
ters turned  him  out  of  doors,  surely  his  attendants  would  have 
conveyed  him  to  some  place  of  rest ;  yet  by  the  play  we  find 
he  roams  into  the  wood,  exposing  himself  unto  the  storm. 
Besides  the  error  of  this  fainting-fit,  let  us  examine  how  'tis 
executed.  His  spirits  being  quite  exhausted,  he  drops  almost 
lifeless  into  the  arms  of  his  attendants.  Do  they  carry  him 
off?  Why,  no.  Relaxed  as  we  may  suppose  his  whole  ma- 
chine is  (for  his  head  and  body  are  both  thrown  extravagant- 
ly behind,  as  if  his  neck  and  back  were  broke),  yet  his  knees 
(which  in  Nature  would  most  likely  falter  first)  are  still  so  able 
to  support  him  in  that  odd  bent  condition  that  he  walks  off 
with  the  regular  stiff  step  of  a  soldier  in  his  exercise  on 
the  parade.  Is  this  consistent  ?  is  this  natural  ?  is  this  charac- 
ter? Does  not  this  uncouth  appearance,  with  his  bent-back 
body  and  drooping  head,  rather  resemble  the  uncomely  dis- 
tortion of  a  posture-master  when  he  walks  the  "sea-crab,"  as 
they  call  it?  By  the  introduction  of  such  extravagances  he 
seems  to  have  borrowed  a  hint  from  our  brother  Bayes  when 
he  says,  ''I  scorn  your  dull  fellows  who  borrow  all  they  do 
from  Nature;  I'm  for  fetching  it  out  of  my  own  fancy." 
And  a  pretty  fancy  it  is,  truly !  I  question  if  it  would  have 


APPENDIX.  487 

entered  into  the  imagination  of  any  other  man.  But,  as  Bayes 
again  says,  "It  serves  to  elevate  and  surprise."  Thus  the 
actor  is  satisfied  if  he  can  gain  a  clap  from  the  upper  gallery, 
while  the  pit  and  boxes,  with  a  silent  shrug  alone,  condemn 
such  outre  behavior.  Certainly,  the  author  meant  not  this 
fainting-fit  or  that  Lear  should  stay  to  be  held.  He  rather 
meant  the  king,  in  hurry  of  his  rage  and  grief,  stung  to  the 
heart  by  those  unnatural  hags,  should  fly  all  roofs,  shun  all 
attendance,  pomp,  and  ceremony — should  strive  in  his  agony 
of  soul  to  fly  himself  if  possible. 

I  have  been  informed  (I  know  not  how  true  it  may  be, 
though  the  story  is  not  unlikely)  that  when  Mr.  Garrick  first 
undertook  the  part  of  King  Lear  he  went  to  a  bedlam  to  learn 
to  act  a  madman.  It  had  not  been  a  very  improper  school, 
perhaps,  had  he  been  to  have  played  some  of  the  low,  ridic- 
ulous mad  characters  in  The  Pilgrim ;  but  as  we  do  not  hear 
of  any  mad  king  being  locked  up  there,  I  do  not  readily  con- 
ceive how  his  visit  to  those  elder  brothers  of  the  sky  could 
answer  his  purpose.  One  might  imagine  his  judgment  (if 
he  has  any)  might  have  suggested  to  him  a  considerable 
difference  in  the  behavior  of  a  real  king,  by  great  distress 
driven  to  distraction,  and  the  fantasque  of  a  poor  mad  tailor 
who  in  a  kind  of  frolic  delirium  imagines  himself  a  king. 
Though  the  mockery  of  King  Cabbage  might  cause  a  smile 
with  our  pity,  yet  sure  the  deplorable  situation  of  the  real 
monarch  would  rather  rive  the  heart  than  excite  risi- 
bility. 

I  am  at  a  loss  to  guess  what  end  this  visit  to  the  palace  in 
Moor-Fields  could  answer.  'Tis  probable  the  most  striking 
object  he  could  fix  his  eye  on,  and  the  most  worthy  his  atten- 
tion, was  placed  over  the  gate  to  that  entrance.  I  imagine  no 
one  would  think  Shakespeare  would  have  paid  such  a  visit  to 
have  learnt  from  the  medley  jargon  of  those  unhappy  maniacs 
matter  to  have  furnished  out  his  scenes  of  Lear's  madness. 
No  j  his  amazing  genius,  whose  extensive  imagination  took  in 
all  Nature,  and  with  a  judgment  adequate  arranged  his  ideas, 
giving  proper  sentiment,  language,  and  spirit  to  every  charac- 
ter, when  Lear's  madness  struck  his  raptured  fancy,  "the 


488  APPENDIX. 

poet's  brain,  in  a  fine  fiery  fit  of  frenzy  rolling,"  wanted  not 
such  mean  resources. 

I  have  heard  some  persons  objected  that  Mr.  Barry  would 
want  pleasantry  in  the  mad-scenes  of  King  Lear.  I  must  con- 
fess I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  they  meant.  Lear's  madness 
claims  a  serious  attention — sometimes  excites  our  admiration, 
often  moves  our  tears,  and  ever  our  pity  and  our  terror.  If  a 
spectator  of  those  scenes  should  be  inclined  to  laugh,  might 
not  one  suspect  such  spectator  had  no  very  delicate  feeling,  or 
that  there  was  something  absurd  in  the  actor's  performance  ? 
It  may  be  observed  that  though  Lear  is  turned  of  fourscore, 
yet  he  sinks  not  into  the  enervated  or  decrepit  old  man ;  he 
no  more  bends  under  age  than  as  Nature  (though  in  spirit  and 
health)  will  at  that  time  of  day  sometimes  give  way  to  ease. 
His  deportment  will  still  express  the  monarch. 

I  own  I  think  Mr.  Barry  well  deserved  the  uncommon  ap- 
plause he  met  with  in  this  part.  It  may  be  a  question  whe- 
ther in  this  character  he  has  not  shown  more  of  the  masterly 
actor  than  in  all  he  has  done  before.  His  voice  was  well  man- 
aged, his  looks  expressive,  his  deportment  becoming  the  cha- 
racter, his  actions  graceful  and  picturesque ;  he  meant  well, 
and  executed  that  meaning  with  a  becoming  dignity  and  ease. 
There  appeared  throughout  a  well-conducted  variety  and  spirit- 
ed propriety.  His  attitudes  appeared  the  result  of  Nature,  and 
by  a  happy  transition  from  one  to  another  they  seemed  not 
studied.  He  threw  himself  into  'em  as  if  his  immediate  feel- 
ing alone  directed  him  to  the  use  of  'em. 

There  has  lately  appeared  in  some  of  our  public  papers  the 
following  epigram  on  the  two  Lears : 

"  To  praise  the  different  Lears, 
To  Barry  they  gave  loud  huzzas — 
To  Garrick  only  tears." 

A  pretty  conceit,  but  how  if  it  is  not  quite  true  ?  For  'tis  as 
certain  that  Mr.  Garrick  has  had  other  applause  besides  tears 
as  'tis  true  that  Mr.  Barry,  besides  loud  huzzas,  has  never 
failed  to  draw  tears  from  many  of  his  spectators.  Were  it 
injurious  to  the  author  of  this  epigram  to  suppose  he  was  a 


APPENDIX.  489 

little  hurt  by  Mr.  Barry's  success?  Though  it  maybe  diffi- 
cult to  say  who  was  the  author,  yet  to  guess  who  was  hurt  most 
by  Mr.  Barry's  applause  cannot  be  a  very  hard  matter  to  guess. 
Permit  me,  therefore,  to  deliver  to  you  a  reply  to  the  fore- 
mentioned  epigram.  I  believe  it  may  fairly  stand  by  the 
other,  and  is  not  the  less  poignant  for  its  truth : 

"  Critics,  attend,  and  judge  the  rival  Lears : 
Whilst  each  commands  applause  and  each  your  tears, 
Then  own  this  truth :  Well  he  performs  his  part 
Who  touches  even  Garrick  to  the  heart." 

Congreve  makes  Witwould  say,  "  Contradictions  beget  one 
another,  like  rabbits."  The  simile  may  hold  on  this  occasion 
in  regard  to  epigrams.  I  have  had  two  sent  me  on  this  sub- 
ject, which  I  shall  venture  to  repeat,  though  since  they  were 
sent  to  me  (as  was  the  last)  they  have  made  their  appearance 
in  some  of  our  public  papers : 

"  When  kingly  Barry  acts,  the  boxes  ring 
With  echoing  praise  :  '  Ay,  every  inch  a  king !' 
When  Garrick  dwindling  whines, 

Th'  assenting  house 
Re- whispers  aptly  back,  «  A  mouse  !  a  mouse !'  " 

"  Shakespeare,  arise,  and  end  the  warm  dispute — 
Bid  malice  cease  to  sneer,  and  wits  be  mute. 
If  both  the  Lears  have  merit  in  thy  eyes, 
On  both  smile  gracious,  and  divide  the  prize. 
Of  future  worth  let  candor  be  the  test : 
Who  envies  most  shall  be  but  second  best" 

Will  it  not  be  a  matter  of  some  surprise  to  the  public  that 
an  actor  of  such  improving  talents  and  happy  abilities  as  Mr. 
Barry  is  avowedly  possessed  of  should  be  rejected  by  any 
manager  of  a  theatre  ?  Should  any  personal  pique  or  preju- 
dice prevent  the  director  adding  to  the  strength  of  his  com- 
pany or  to  the  variety  of  the  town's  entertainment?  Is  any 
of  our  theatres  so  rich  in  actors  as  not  to  need  any  performer 
who  has  stood  the  trial  and  passed  the  public  approbation  ? 
But  perhaps  the  great  vanity  and  -little  fears  of  the  player  got 
the  better  even  of  the  avarice  of  the  manager,  and  rather  than 


490  APPENDIX. 

have  so  powerful  a  competitor  (in  tragedy  especially)  under 
the  same  roof,  he  chose  to  forego  (heart-breaking  thought!) 
even  the  lucre  that  must  have  accrued  to  the  manager  from 
such  an  actor's  performance.  Yet  that  this  stage-director 
might  have  had  this  actor  in  his  company  is  a  truth  the  pat- 
entee can  scarcely  be  hardy  enough  to  deny  while  Mr.  Barry 
is  living  to  assert  it.  In  my  view  of  the  two  Lears  I  have 
rather  chosen  to  dwell  longer  on  the  excellences  of  one  actor 
than  on  a  closer  observation  of  the  defects  of  the  other;  for, 
though,  as  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  observes, 

"'Tis  great  delight  to  laugh  at  some  men's  ways, 
Yet  'tis  much  greater  to  give  merit  praise." 


V. 

STRICTURES  UPON  THE  ACTING  AND  PERSONAL 
TRAITS  OF  DAVID  GARRICK. 

THE  opinions  of  the  writer  of  the  following  article  (pub- 
lished in  the  Mirror  of  Taste,  Philadelphia,  about  1811) 
were  evidently  formed  on  critical  remarks  upon  the  same 
subject  published  in  the  London  Monthly  Mirror  of  1801. 
I  submit  them  to  the  reader  with  no  other  comment  but 
that  they  will  be  found  to  run  on  the  same  lines  with  what 
I  have  hitherto  said  regarding  favorable  and  adverse  criti- 
cism on  the  merits  of  the  English  Roscius : 

That  Mr.  Garrick  was  the  greatest  actor  of  his  time  is  so 
universally  admitted  that,  if  there  were  any  one  now  disin- 
clined to  believe  it,  prudence  would  forbid  him  to  avow  his 
incredulity.  Against  the  voice  of  nations  and  the  opinions 
of  most  of  the  enlightened  critics  of  his  time  it  would  be 
presumptuous,  and  no  less  vain  than  presumptuous,  to  set  up 
a  different  opinion  at  this  time ;  but  that  much  of  the  extrav- 
agant eulogies  we  now  read,  and  many  of  the  strange  stories 
we  hear  recounted  of  his  powers,  are  the  offspring  of  that 


APPENDIX.  491 

warm  enthusiasm  which  sees  everything  in  superlative  excess 
may  be  reasonably  believed,  and  indeed  is  more  likely,  and 
seems  much  more  conformable  to  plain  truth  and  common 
sense.  We  never  find  in  real  life  such  prodigies  as  those  we 
read  of;  and  it  seems  more  probable  that  the  judgment  of  his 
extreme  admirers  was  blinded  by  wonder  and  betrayed  into 
an  exaggerated  notion  of  his  talents  than  that  an  individual 
should  be  so  much  more  than  human  as  Garrick  must  have 
been  if  some  things  recounted  of  him  were  true.  It  has 
been  frequently  related,  and  by  many  a  person  of  good  sense 
believed,  that  at  one  time,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  a 
painter,  he,  merely  by  the  force  of  imagination,  went  through 
the  whole  process  of  declension  from  ruddy  health  to  actual 
death ;  that  he  first  glowed  with  feverish  heat,  then  grew  lan- 
guid, pale,  and  helpless ;  sank  on  a  couch ;  his  breath  became 
hard  and  quick ;  a  cadaverous  ghastliness  succeeded ;  his  eyes 
rolled,  their  pupils  were  almost  hidden,  while  the  lids  lay 
open ;  and  he  expired  in  a  manner  so  natural  as  to  startle  the 
spectators.  Now,  though  it  is  highly  probable — I  would  say 
certain — that  this  story  was  a  mere  fabrication,  yet  the  fact  of 
its  being  thought  of,  and  still  more  its  being  believed,  is  a  sat- 
isfactory demonstration  that  the  public  mind  respecting  this  ex- 
traordinary man  was  wound  up  to  a  pitch  of  rapturous  enthu- 
siasm, such  almost  as  Johnson,  in  his  metaphorical  language, 
would  have  called  a  "  calenture  of  the  brain."  I  myself  have 
many  times  heard  it  repeated  by  men  of  sense  and  credibility, 
and  swallowed  as  if  it  were  truth  by  the  gaping  listeners — nay, 
I  remember  the  time  when  I  should  have  thought  him  an  infidel 
who  doubted  it.  But  experience  has  cooled  my  credulity,  and 
as  I  have  since  had  occasion  to  observe  that  spells  little  less 
potent  have  been  raised  by  talents  very  inferior  to  some  of 
Garrick' s  contemporaries  of  whom  nothing  of  the  kind  was 
ever  imagined,  my  mind  is  made  up  on  the  subject,  and, 
though  believing  him  to  be  the  greatest  actor  of  his  day,  I 
still  think  that  much  of  what  has  been  said  of  him  is  mere 
hyperbolical  nonsense. 

It  is  pretty  evident  that  variety  and  comprehensiveness  were 
the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Garrick' s  talents.     He  could  on  the 


492  APPENDIX. 

same  night  display  great  tragic  and  great  comic  powers — ap- 
pall the  heart  with  fear  in  Macbeth  and  shake  the  house  with 
laughter  in  Sharp.  But  the  generally-received  opinion,  that 
in  all  the  intermediate  parts  between  these  extremes  he  was 
equally  great,  is  unwarranted  by  fact.  A  fond  and  amiable 
friend,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  has  placed  him  in  his  celebrated 
picture  as  standing  equally  between  Tragedy  and  Comedy,  but 
there  is  more  of  fine  poetical  imagination  than  of  truth  in  the 
worthy  knight's  opinion.  A  friend  of  Garrick's,  of  superior 
intellectual  powers  to  Sir  Joshua,  thought  that  Mr.  Garrick's 
tragedy  scarcely  bore  any  comparison  with  his  comedy;  in 
the  former  he  had  successful  rivals,  while  in  the  latter  it  is 
probable  he  never  had  an  equal  in  the  world.  A  critic  and 
poet  now  living,  who  carried  his  admiration  of  Garrick  as 
near  to  enthusiasm  as  a  fine  and  accurate  discriminating  judg- 
ment would  allow,  and  who  was  personally  partial  to  him, 
maintained  the  superiority  of  Barry  in  many  parts.  Mossop, 
who  was  at  the  time  alluded  to  a  perfect  stranger  in  London, 
an  adventurer  little  known,  and  who  labored  under  the  disad- 
vantage (at  that  time  no  slight  one)  of  being  an  Irishman,  so 
successfully  rivalled  the  English  Roscius  in  some  of  his  own 
characters  that  the  latter  ungenerously  and  unjustly  conspired 
to  remove  him  in  order  to  be  relieved  from  what  he  felt  to  be 
superiority.  Henderson,  too,  wanting  many  natural  requi- 
sites which  Garrick  enjoyed  to  perfection,  though  he  died  at 
an  early  age,  held  in  many  characters,  comic  as  well  as  tragic, 
a  very  reputable  rank  of  competition  with  him,  in  the  opin- 
ions of  the  most  judicious.  His  affectionate  friend  and  pre- 
ceptor, Dr.  Johnson,  derided  not  only  the  public  opinion 
respecting  him,  but  laughed  at  his  own  pretensions  ("Punch 
cannot  feel,"  said  the  doctor),  and  gravely  declared  that  there 
was  not  a  man  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre  who  could  not  pro- 
nounce the  soliloquy  of  Hamlet,  beginning  "To  be  or  not 
to  be,"  as  well.  In  his  comedy,  too,  the  doctor's  discerning 
eye  perceived  faults  where  the  public  could  see  none ;  and  he 
particularly  censured  him  in  the  character  of  Archer  for  not 
letting  the  gentleman  shine  through  the  footman.  His  warm- 
est panegyrist,  the  Dramatic  Censor,  in  some  sort  agrees  with 


APPENDIX.  493 

the  doctor  ("  nor  attains  to  what  is  called  the  fine  gentleman"), 
but  this  he  smooths  over  with  the  very  unphilosophical  reason 
that  it  was  too  languid  for  his  great  powers.  In  the  character 
of  Hamlet  the  late  Mr.  Sheridan  (he  whose  son  has  eclipsed 
all  moderns  as  a  dramatic  poet,  and  been  surpassed  by  few  as 
an  orator  and  statesman)  held  a  competition  with  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  which  excited  his  jealousy ;  and  indeed  he  in  some  cha- 
racters so  far  outshone  him  as  to  render  a  total  resignation  of 
the  characters  advisable  on  the  part  of  the  latter ;  but  those 
were  chiefly  declamatory  characters,  such  as  Cato,  Brutus, 
etc. ;  in  King  John  and  the  Roman  Father  he  was  allowed 
to  take  the  lead. 

Though  the  revolution  which  Mr.  Garrick  effected  in  the 
system  of  acting  has  brought  the  stage  nearer  to  Nature  than 
it  was  when  he  first  appeared,  it  is  the  opinion  of  many  lumi- 
nous critics  that  he  injured  by  it  the  art  of  reading  poetry. 
Sir  Brooke  Boothby  says  that,  "  Willing  to  depreciate  a  talent 
which  he  did  not  possess,  Garrick  contrived  to  bring  meas- 
ured and  harmonious  recitation  into  disrepute."  A  critic  of 
a  later  day,  adverting  to  that  opinion,  says  that  "  With  all  his 
skill,  and  the  wonderful  effects  ascribed  to  that  gentleman's 
acting,  he  was  by  constitution  or  a  natural  deficiency  of 
voice  unable  to  acquire  reputation  as  a  declaimer."  And 
here  again  we  find  the  opinions  of  his  idolatrous  panegyr- 
ist, the  Dramatic  Censor,  come  in  confirmation  of  those  re- 
marks. "Though  generally  correct  in  modulation,"  says 
that  critic,  "and  almost  invariably  so  in  expressing  the 
sense  of  his  author,  there  is  a  respirative  drag,  as  if  to  catch 
the  breath;"  and  further  on  :  "  Our  English  Roscius  I  never 
could  admire  in  declamation;  indeed,  he  has  kept  pretty 
clear  of  it." 

The  innovation  of  Mr.  Garrick,  however,  was  certainly  a 
happy  one  for  the  drama ;  but  it  must  be  understood  as  not  at 
all  reflecting  upon  his  gigantic  predecessor,  Betterton.  For 
the  fact  is,  that  elocution  had,  from  the  time  of  the  latter,  been 
on  the  decline,  and  when  Garrick  appeared  had  begun  to 
assume  a  pompousness  or  unnatural-sort  of  strut  adapted  rather 
to  the  termination  of  the  .lines  than  to  the  sense  and  spirit  of 
42 


494  APPENDIX. 

the  subject  or  the  joint  harmony  of  the  thoughts  and  num- 
bers.* 

This  afforded  a  broad  mark  for  a  man  of  genius  to  aim  at, 
and  yielded  an  easy  victory  to  such  popular  talents  as  those 
of  Garrick — the  more  easy  because  his  talents  as  a  wit  and  a 
poet  supplied  him  with  weapons  which  he  did  not  fail  to  em- 
ploy, and  which  enabled  him  to  accomplish  his  triumph  over 
the  exploded  system  by  overcharged  caricature  and  ludicrous 
imitation.  Besides  this,  he  stands  accused — and  that  by  no 
mean  judges,  either — of  having  bounded  from  that  which  he 
threw  into  contempt  to  an  opposite  extreme,  and  given  his 
principal  attention  to  manner. and  gesture;  for,  as  a  respect- 
able writer  says,  "  In  his  gravest  and  most  tragical  parts  he 
had  recourse  to  trick,  in  consequence  of  which  those  actors 
who  merely  copied  him  were  execrable." 

Nevertheless,  he  was  certainly  a  wonderful  actor.  He  had 
an  admirable  stage-face,  with  an  eye  quick,  piercing,  and 
almost  miraculously  expressive.  He  had  uncommon  spirit, 
vast  discernment,  and  that  admirable  requisite,  a  mind  formed 
by  Nature  for  discriminating  characters,  with  physical  organs 
little  less  powerful  in  exhibiting,  in  all  their  symptoms  and 
phenomena,  the  lively,  ardent,  and  impetuous  passions ;  looks 
and  gestures  which  were  often  more  impressive  and  intelligi- 
ble than  the  words  of  his  author ;  and  tones  of  voice  which 
thrilled  to  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  heart  and  forced  the 
stoutest  nerves  to  vibrate  in  unison  with  them.  It  was  by 
these  instruments  that  he  was  able  to  wind  up  the  public  feel- 
ings to  his  will,  and  make  the  world  believe,  contrary  to  fact 
and  truth,  that  he  was  as  great  in  tragedy  as  in  comedy,  and 
therefore  that  he  was  more  universal  than  he  really  was. 

The  fame  of  Mr.  Garrick  as  an  actor  was  not,  like  those 
of  most  other  performers,  borne  up  by  his  professional  tal- 
ents alone ;  he  had  other  advantages,  of  which  he  made  the 
best  use  possible  in  swelling  the  amount  of  his  reputation. 

*  The  stage  in  England  and  America  is  sadly  degenerated  again  in  this 
way,  particularly  among  the  females.  This  is  a  deformity  to  which  the 
greatest  industry  and  attention  should  be  opposed,  because  it  seerns  to  be 
a  natural  tendency. 


APPENDIX.  495 

His  wit,  his  humor,  and  mimicry,  his  happy  talent  for  small 
versification,  and  the  great  powers  he  possessed  of  rendering 
himself  agreeable  as  a  companion,  extended  his  acquaintance 
to  an  immense  circle.  Prudence,  of  which  he  possessed  a 
larger  share  than  is  often  found  united  with  genius,  directed 
him  to  select  his  companions  from  the  highest  order  he  could 
reach  at,  and  those  he  justly  considered  not  only  as  the  safest, 
but  as  the  most  likely  to  promote  the  interest  of  any  man  they 
admit  to  their  intimacy,  and  at  the  same  time  the  least  waste- 
ful to  the  purse.  From  among  the  opulent,  the  learned,  and 
the  powerful  he  chose  his  associates,  and  those  he  cultivated 
with  all  the  address  of  which  he  was  master,  carrying  on  a 
large  traffic  of  flattery,  of  which  he  was  no  niggard  either  to 
them  or  to  himself:  as  Goldsmith  says,  he  was  "be-Rosciused, 
and  they  were  be-praised."  He  puffed  them  up  with  adula- 
tion, dexterously  administered  to  each  through  the  medium 
of  the  others.  They  pledged  themselves  that  he  was  the  most 
extraordinary  man  in  the  world,  and  thought  themselves  bound 
to  redeem  their  pledge ;  and  thus  was  he  so  effectually  ensured 
against  all  competition  that  an  actor  of  equal  talents  would 
have  had  no  chance  of  success  in  a  struggle  with  him. 

That  he  really  believed  himself  to  be  so  very  superior  as 
his  panegyrists  described  and  his  admirers  thought  him — and 
his  panegyrists  and  admirers  were  almost  a  whole  nation — 
may  well  be  doubted,  as  envy  of  the  most  painful  kind  and 
jealousy  amounting  to  panic  continually  harassed  him.  He 
never  failed  to  betray  emotions  of  discontent  whenever  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  merits  of  great  performers ;  and 
this  unhappy  feeling  so  tyrannically  overruled  reason,  candor, 
and  liberality  in  his  heart  that  he  became  jealous  of  those  who 
could  not  be  his  rivals,  and  actually  sickened  at  the  praises  of 
eminent  actresses.  Mrs.  Pritchard's  fame  greatly  embittered 
his  life.  Dr.  Beattie,  speaking  of  Mrs.  Siddons  in  a  letter  to 
Sir  William  Forbes,  says:  "I  asked  Tom  Davies  (the  author 
of  Garrick's  Life)  whether  he  could  account  for  Garrick's 
neglect,  or  rather  discouragement,  of  her.  He  imputed  it  to 
jealousy.  'How  is  it  possible,'  said  I,  'that  Garrick  could 
be  jealous  of  a  woman?' — 'He  would  have  been  jealous  of  a 


496  APPENDIX. 

child,'  answered  he,  'if  that  child  had  been  a  favorite  of  the 
public;  to  my  certain  knowledge  he  would.'  "  Yet  the  doc- 
tor was  a  great  admirer  of  Garrick,  as  appears  from  several 
passages  in  his  letters ;  he  says  that  that  great  actor  had  once, 
in  playing  Macbeth,  nearly  made  him  throw  himself  over  the 
front  of  the  two-shilling  gallery.  And  in  another  letter  he 
says:  "I  thought  my  old  friend  Garrick  fell  little  or  noth- 
ing short  of  theatrical  perfection,  and  I  have  seen  him  in  his 
prime  and  in  his  highest  characters ;  but  Garrick  never  affect- 
ed me  half  so  much  as  Mrs.  Siddons  has  done."  Had  Gar- 
rick lived  to  hear  this  from  such  a  person  as  Dr.  Beattie  it 
would  have  killed  him;  but  the  doctor  had  in  him  as  large  a 
share  of  prudent  suavity  as  Mr.  Garrick  himself,  and  would 
not  probably  have  hurt  the  feelings  of  Roscius  by  the  avowal 
of  such  an  opinion  if  he  were  alive. 

From  Garrick' s  excessive  and  irrational  jealousy  arose  a 
number  of  foibles,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  one  vice  worse 
than  all.  It  rendered  him  sometimes  unjust  to  the  merit  of 
others,  and  sometimes  betrayed  him  into  little  acts  of  dupli- 
city. His  conduct  to  Mr.  Mossop  is  one  of  the  many  instances 
which  appear  in  the  history  of  the  stage  to  establish  this  charge 
against  him.  Tate  Wilkinson,  who  has  indulged  as  freely  as 
any  one  in  jesting  upon  the  singularities  of  that  excellent 
actor,  Mossop,  speaking  of  his  leaving  Drury  Lane,  says : 
"It  was  occasioned  by  an  affront  he  took  from  Mr.  Gar- 
rick's  appointing  him  to  act  Richard,  as  we  will  suppose, 
this  night,  and  his  first  and  best  character,*  which  stood  well 
against  Mr.  Garrick's,  though  not  so  artfully  discriminated, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  manager  (Garrick)  had  secured  a 
command  from  the  Prince  of  Wales  for  the  night  following ; 
so  that  when  Mossop  had  finished  his  Richard  with  remark- 
able credit,  to  his  astonishment  the  Mr.  Palmer  of  that  age 
stepped  forward  and  said,  '  To-morrow  night,  by  command  of 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales  (George  the  Third, 
then  a  youth),  King  Richard  the  Third — King  Richard  by  Mr. 
Garrick  ' — it  gave  a  great  damp  to  what  Mr.  Mossop  had  just 
done.  It  was  certainly  galling,  and  proved  duplicity  and  ill- 
*  No ;  not  by  many — not  by  a  great  deal ! 


APPENDIX.  497 

nature  as  well  as  envy."  Nothing  that  can  be  advanced  on 
this  transaction  could  convey  a  more  adequate  idea  of  Mr. 
Garrick's  motives  than  the  simple  recital  of  the  transaction 
itself.  It  was  decisive  as  to  the  fate  of  Mossop,  who  was  too 
proud  to  remain  any  longer  at  Drury  Lane,  and  too  dignified 
to  complain  of  the  insult  to  any  one  but  Mr.  Garrick  himself. 
In  disgust,  therefore,  he  left  him  for  ever,  and,  engaging  with 
Barry  and  Woodward  at  Crow  Street,  Dublin,  incurred  that 
series  of  losses  and  woes  which  at  last  brought  him  to  the 
grave. 

Though  Mr.  Sheridan  was  a  much  less  formidable  rival 
than  Mossop,  Mr.  Garrick  was  tortured  with  jealousy  of  him 
too ;  and  his  feelings  were  raised  to  an  unreasonable  degree 
of  painfulness  at  Sheridan's  success  in  King  John,  especially 
when  he  was  told  that  the  king  was  uncommonly  pleased  with 
that  actor's  representation  of  the  part.  "  To  make  the  draught 
still  more  unpalatable,"  says  the  recorder  of  these  facts,  "  upon 
his  (Garrick's)  asking  whether  His  Majesty  approved  his  play- 
ing the  Bastard,  he  was  told,  without  the  least  compliment 
paid  to  his  acting,  it  was  imagined  that  the  king  thought  that 
the  character  was  rather  too  bold  in  the  drawing  and  that  the 
coloring  was  overcharged  and  glaring.  Mr.  Garrick,  who  had 
been  so  accustomed  to  applause,  and  who,  of  all  men  living, 
most  sensibly  felt  the  neglect  of  it,  was  greatly  struck  with  a 
preference  given  to  another,  and  which  left  him  out  of  all  con- 
sideration ;  and,  though  the  boxes  were  taken  for  King  John 
several  nights  successively,  he  would  never  after  permit  the 
play  to  be  acted." 

These  are  proofs  of  a  most  unpardonable  invidiousness  of 
nature.  They  are  absolute — not  in  the  least  doubtful  or  capa- 
ble of  palliation,  for  of  Mossop  or  Sheridan  he  was  not  called 
upon  to  give  an  opinion :  the  stamp  of  public  opinion  had 
been  long  impressed  upon  them.  But  in  the  case  of  Hender- 
son a  pretext  may  be  set  up  that  his  opposition  to  that  admi- 
rable actor  was  an  error  of  judgment.  Yet  his  many  en- 
deavors to  depreciate  and  his  perseverance  in  undervaluing 
Henderson  after  the  talents  of  the  latter  had  gone  through 
the  mint,  assayed  to  high  value,  show  that  our  hero  was  gov- 
42*  2  G 


498  APPENDIX. 

erned,  in  that  case  at  least,  by  the  same  envious  spirit  which 
moved  him  in  the  cases  of  Sheridan  and  Mossop.  After  Hen- 
derson had  at  Bath  obtained  the  name  of  "  The  Bath  Roscius," 
and  at  Dublin  was  placed  in  the  same  rank  with  their  favored 
Mossops,  Sheridans,  and  Barrys,  and,  what  was  much  more, 
after  he  had  received  the  most  unequivocal  approbation  from 
no  less  a  man  than  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  Mr.  Garrick 
being  prevailed  upon  to  go  to  the  Haymarket  to  see  him  play 
Shylock,  in  which  he  excelled,  and  being  asked  by  the  friend 
who  brought  him,  "Well,  Mr.  Garrick,  speak  candidly ;  did 
not  Shylock  please  you?" — "Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  replied  Gar- 
rick, "and  so  did  Tubal." 

Without  meaning  anything  like  offence  to  the  profession, 
we  are  firmly  persuaded  that  there  are  many  good  actors  who 
are  far  from  being  competent  judges  of  the  merits  of  others. 
We  have  been  accustomed  from  infancy  to  hear  it  remarked, 
and  long  observation  has  confirmed  us  in  the  opinion.  We 
think  it  not  difficult  to  account  for  it,  either.  Old  Charles 
Macklin,  who  never  saw  real  merit  that  he  did  not  endeavor 
to  bring  it  forward — of  which  there  are  many  living  exam- 
ples— and  the  venerable  Mr.  Hull  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
were  excellent  judges,  and  no  doubt  others  are  to  be  found  ; 
but  we  speak  generally.  Even  old  Sheridan,  who,  so  far  from 
having  any  of  Garrick' s  envy,  always  erred  on  the  other  side, 
and  who  was  a  gentleman  of  most  uncommon  powers  of  mind 
and  refined  taste,  was  deficient  in  judgment  upon  the  talents 
of  players ;  of  which  we  cannot  give  a  stronger  proof  than 
what  Dr.  Beattie  relates  of  him.  In  a  letter  to  Sir  William 
Forbes  the  doctor  says  that  "Sheridan  assured  him  that  in 
every  comic  character,  from  Lady  Townly  to  Nell,  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  was  as  great  and  as  original  as  in  tragedy;"  which  was 
downright  rhodomontade.  In  reviewing  the  history  of  the 
stage  we  find  Mr.  Garrick,  with  a  perversion  of  judgment 
truly  astonishing,  the  opposer  of  candidates  of  talent  and  the 
promoter  of  men  of  incapacity.  He  discouraged  the  after- 
celebrated  Tom  King,  and  kept  him  in  the  shade  till  Mr. 
Sheridan  took  him  to  Dublin,  where  he  first  received  the  just 
reward  of  his  rare  powers.  He  refused  Miss  Brent,  though 


APPENDIX.  499 

urged  by  Dr.  Arne  to  secure  her  to  his  theatre ,  and  he  en- 
tirely overlooked  Miss  Younge  for  two  seasons,  during  which 
she  played  inferior  parts  under  him  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre. 
That  this  was  owing  to  mere  defect  of  judgment,  not  jealousy, 
appears  from  his  subsequent  conduct  ;  for  as  soon  as  he  heard 
that  she  succeeded  in  Dublin  he  actually  despatched  Moody 
the  player  after  her  to  offer  her  a  carte  blanche ;  in  conse- 
quence of  which  she  played  the  first  characters  at  Drury  Lane 
'for  eight  years,  and  would  have  continued  to  do  so  longer  if 
Mr.  Harris  had  not  bought  her  off  by  terms  which  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  would  not  agree  to.  To  the  repeated  offers  of  the  cele- 
brated John  Palmer,  and  after  various  probationary  rehearsals, 
he  gave  a  positive  refusal,  still  assuring  him  that  "he  never 
would  do;"  and  he  uniformly  undervalued  the  imperial  mis- 
tress of  the  stage,  Mrs.  Siddons ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  admired  more  than  any  one  Tate  Wilkinson,  one  of  the 
worst  actors  in  the  world.  And  why?  Why,  truly,  because 
he  was  a  mimic.  These  are  all  facts,  to  find  which  we  can 
direct  any  reader  to  the  books  and  pages  where  they  are  re- 
corded ;  and  we  think  it  is  not  going  too  far  to  conclude  from 
these  instances  of  his  want  of  judgment  or  of  candor  in  the  case 
of  persons  of  conspicuity  that  numbers  who  might  have  been 
ornaments  to  the  stage  were  pushed  off  from  it  in  the  course 
of  his  long  theatrical  reign,  and  were  left  to  languish  away 
life  unknown,  perhaps  in  obscurity  and  want. 

Lively  as  was  his  genius  and  irritable  as  were  his  feelings, 
his  conduct  was  still  kept  under  the  steady,  unrelaxed  rein  of 
worldly  prudence  and  discretion.  Like  most  other  actors,  he 
frequently  mistook  the  bent  of  his  talents,  and  often  found 
that  his  inclinations  and  his  professional  powers  were  at  vari- 
ance. Very  different  from  them,  however,  he  never  persisted 
in  putting  his  conceits  into  practice,  but  as  soon  as  he  found 
that  the  public  differed  from  his  expectation  in  his  perform- 
ance of  a  character  he  wisely  abandoned  the  attempt.  Fal- 
staff,  Shylock,  the  Bastard  in  King  John,  King  John  himself, 
Marplot,  and  a  long  et  csetera,  he  attempted  because  he  liked 
them,  and  left  them  because  the  .public  did  not;  for  it  is  a 
mistaken  idea,  universally  though  it  prevailed,  that  he  could 


500  APPENDIX. 

play  everything  better  than  all  other  actors.  His  superiority 
consisted  really  in  this,  .that  he  was  unrivalled  in  a  greater 
number  and  greater  variety  of  characters  than  any  other  per- 
former. To  say  that  in  wit  he  was  inferior  to  Foote  is  to  say 
no  more  of  him  than  may  be  asserted  of  any  of  the  most  bril- 
liant of  their  contemporaries.  That  Garrick  had  occasionally 
sallies  of  true  wit  is  unquestionable,  but  they  were  only  occa- 
sional, not  frequent;  nor  were  they,  as  Foote's  were,  contin- 
ually and  instantly  at  his  command.  I  have  often  heard  the 
question  discussed  whether  Garrick' s  claim  to  the  title  of  a 
wit  was  perfectly  clear.  He  had,  however,  in  abundance  that 
which  often  passes  current  for  wit — a  vigorous  and  lively  im- 
agination, aided  by  a  considerable  share  of  knowledge  of 
books  and  much  knowledge  of  mankind,  together  with  a  keen 
perception  of  the  ludicrous.  Along  with  these  he  had  extra- 
ordinary talents  for  mimicry,  and  an  excellent  memory,  which, 
from  a  large  store  of  experience  and  observation,  furnished 
him  with  boundless  materials  for  conversation,  of  which  he 
generally  made  the  most,  expatiating  upon  them  in  a  very  fas- 
cinating manner ;  but  from  his  dilatations,  if  they  were  pre- 
sented in  writing  and  not  witnessed  personally,  any  man  who 
knew  him  could  tell  what  the  sort  of  company  was  in  which 
he  uttered  them.  In  the  presence  of  superiors  in  rank  and 
condition  his  fancy  seemed  to  be  lowered  down  to  a  reveren- 
tial decorum,  and  in  the  presence  of  Foote  his  wit  was  sub- 
dued, as  it  is  said  Antony's  spirit  was  by  Caesar.  It  was  not 
in  the  pleasant  warfare  of  wit,  nor  in  the  quick  reply  or  re- 
tort, nor  in  the  vivid  reciprocation  of  dialogue,  he  shone,  but 
in  the  happy  relation  of  humorous  stories  and  pleasant  anec- 
dotes. In  these  he  had  a  peculiar  felicity,  and  was  almost 
unrivalled.  The  superiority  of  Barry  in  the  telling  of  an 
Irish  story,  however — but  in  none  other — he  acknowledged. 
Yet  with  all  these  gifts  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  Gold- 
smith's character  of  him  in  the  little  poem  of  "Retaliation  " 
was  perfectly  correct.  With  his  opinion, 

"  It  is  only  that  when  he  is  off  he  is  acting," 
Lord  Oxford's  (Walpole)  exactly  corresponded.     "I   dined 


APPENDIX. 


501 


to-day  at  Garrick's,"  says  his  lordship.  "There  were  the 
Duke  of  Grafton,  Lady  Rochfort,  Lady  Holderness,  the 
crooked  Moyston,  and  Dabren,  the  Spanish  minister;  two 
regents,  of  which  one  is  Lord  Chamberlain  and  the  other 
Groom  of  the  Stole;  and  the  wife  of  a.  Secretary  of  State. 
This  is  being  sur  un  assez  bon  ton  for  a  player !  Don't  you 
want  to  ask  me  how  I  like  him?  Do  want,  and  I  will  tell 
you.  I  like  her  exceedingly;  she  is  all  sense,  and  all  sweet- 
ness too.  I  don't  know  how,  but  he  does  not  improve  so 
fast  upon  me.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  parts,  vivacity,  and 
variety,  but  there  is  a  great  deal,  too,  of  mimicry  and  burlesque. 
I  am  very  ungrateful,  for  he  flatters  me  abundantly,  but,  un- 
luckily, I  know  it.  I  was  accustomed  to  it  enough  when  my 
father  was  First  Minister;  on  his  fall  I  lost  it  all  at  once." 
"Garrick,"  says  another  elegant  writer,  "was  all  submission 
in  the  presence  of  a  peer  or  a  poet,  equally  loath  to  offend  the 
dignity  of  the  one  or  provoke  the  irritability  of  the  other; 
hence  he  was  at  all  times  too  methodical  in  his  conversation 
to  admit  of  his  mixing  in  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of 
soul.  To  his  dependants  and  inferior  players,  however,  he 
was  indeed  King  David,  except  when  he  had  a  mind  to  mor- 
tify them  by  means  of  one  another.  On  such  occasions  he 
generally  took  some  of  the  lowest  among  them,  whom  he 
not  only  cast  in  the  same  scenes  with  himself,  but  frequently 
walked  arm-and-arm  with  them  in  the  greenroom,  and  some- 
times in  his  morning  ramble  about  the  streets." 

By  all  his  imitators  his  ordinary  deportment  and  speech  in 
private  life  have  been  described  as  very  singular.  We  have 
heard  him  mimicked  by  Henderson,  whose  imitation  was  said 
to  be  frightfully  perfect ;  by  Brush  Collins ;  by  Tate  Wilkin- 
son; by  a  celebrated  public  mimic  in  London  whose  name 
we  now  forget.  Their  imitations  all  partook,  no  doubt,  of 
the  exaggeration  inseparable  from  mimicry,  but  they  all  so 
exactly  resembled  each  other  that  it  was  impossible  to  resist 
the  persuasion  that  they  were  all  good  caricature  pictures  of 
the  same  person.  Henderson's  was  comparatively  chaste,  and 
was  said  by  some  of  Garrick's  intimates  to  be  very  little  over- 
charged. Taking  this  for  granted,  I  conceive  Wilkinson's 


502  APPENDIX. 

account  of  Garrick's  conversation  to  come  as  near  to  the  thing 
as  it  was  possible  for  writing  to  bring  it.  Of  this  a  single 
specimen  will  answer  as  well  as  a  thousand.  It  seems  that, 
owing  to  the  departure  of  Mossop,  Garrick  was  at  a  loss  for  a 
Bajazet,  and,  perhaps  to  mortify  Mossop,  he  selected  Wilkin- 
son to  perform  that  great  character.  A  private  rehearsal  of 
the  part  was  ordered  in  Mr.  Garrick's  dressing-room  and  in 
his  presence,  for  the  benefit  of  his  corrections.  Mr.  Cross,  the 
prompter,  was  ordered  to  attend  with  the  play,  and  also  Mr. 
Holland,  who  was  to  perform  Tamerlane.  Mr.  Garrick  was 
in  high  humor,  and  Wilkinson,  who  says  so,  details  the  con- 
versation thus:  "'Well,  now,  Cross,  hey!  Why,  now,  this 
will  be  too  much  for  my  exotic  !  Hey,  Cross  ?  I  must  do  it 
myself;  what  say  you?  Hey,  now,  Cross?' — Cross  replied, 
'  I  am  afraid  not  this  year,  sir,  as  the  time  is  drawing  near, 
and  Bajazet  is  long,  and  the  play  must  be  done  next  Monday.' 
— 'Well,  now,  hey,  Cross !  Why,  that  is  true,  but  don't  you 
think  my  brow  and  eye  in  Bajazet?  How  do  you  think  I 
should  play  it?' — 'Oh,  sir,'  said  Cross,  'like  everything  else 
you  do,  your  Bajazet  would  be  incomparable.'  To  which  we 
all  bowed  and  assented.  He  then  acted  a  speech  or  two  in 
the  first  scene,  and  his  look  was  truly  inimitable." 

From  the  life  of  Mr.  Garrick  some  most  useful  lessons  of 
prudential  and  moral  conduct  may  be  deduced.  One  of  these 
— and  perhaps  the  most  valuable,  because  it  concerns  our  duty 
toward  our  neighbor — is  to  be  cautious  how  we  form  opinions 
upon  the  characters  of  our  fellow- creatures  on  the  illusory 
grounds  of  public  report;  for  it  is  not  more  impossible  for  a 
thing  to  be  at  once  black  and  white,  light  and  dark,  good  and 
bad,  than  for  David  Garrick  to  be  such  as  he  has  been  de- 
scribed. It  may  serve  to  check  any  overweening  fondness  for 
public  opinion,  inspired  by  pride  and  vanity,  to  see  how  inef- 
ficacious to  the  obtaining  of  unsullied  reputation,  or  even  fair 
play,  are  the  most  strenuous  efforts  of  the  finest  talents.  To 
us  it,  seems  impossible  to  find  two  men  more  different  than 
the  Garrick  of  his  admirers  and  the  Garrick  of  his  adver- 
saries. 

As  specimens  of  the  pro  and  con.  on  this  subject  the  reader 


APPENDIX.  503 

will  peruse,  no  doubt  with  surprise,  the  following  characters. 
The  following  is  taken  from  the  European  Magazine : 

"He  was  too  cunning  and  too  selfish  to  be  loved  or  re- 
spected, and  so  immoderately  fond  of  money  and  praise  that 
he  expected  you  should  cram  him  with  flattery.  He  was  a 
kind  of  spoiled  child  whom  you  must  humor  in  all  his  ways  and 
follies.  He  was  often  in  extremes  of  civility  and  sly  imper- 
tinence, provoking  and  timid  by  turns.  If  he  handed  you  a 
teacup  or  a  glass,  you  must  take  it  as  a  great  condescension ; 
and  he  often  called  to  you  in  the  street  to  tell  you  in  a  loud 
voice  and  at  some  distance  that  he  intended  you  the  honor  of 
a  visit.  This  some  wag  termed  '  a  visit  in  perspective. '  He 
was  sore  and  waspish  to  a  degree  of  folly,  and  had  creatures 
about  him  who  were  stationed  spies,  and  gave  him  intelligence 
of  every  idle  word  that  was  said  of  him ;  at  the  same  time 
they  misrepresented  or  exaggerated  what  passed,  in  order  to 
gratify  him.  He  was  very  entertaining,  and  could  tell  a  story 
with  great  humor ;  but  he  was  generally  posting  to  his  inter- 
est, and  so  taken  up  with  his  own  concerns  that  he  seldom  was 
a  pleasant  companion.  He  was  stiff  and  strained,  and  more 
an  actor  in  company  than  on  the  stage,  as  Goldsmith  has  de- 
scribed him.  In  short,  he  was  an  unhappy  man  with  all  his 
success  and  fame,  and  wore  himself  out  in  fretting  and  solici- 
tude about  his  worldly  affairs  and  in  theatrical  squabbles  and 
altercations.  Though  he  loved  money,  he  has  been  friendly 
on  some  occasions,  and  liberal  to  persons  in  distress;  but  he 
had  the  knack  of  making  his  acquaintance  useful  and  subser- 
vient to  him,  and  always  had  his  interest  in  view.  His  levees 
put  you  in  mind  of  a  court,  where  you  might  see  mean  adula- 
tion, insincerity,  pride,  and  vanity,  and  the  little  man  in 
ecstasy  at  hearing  himself  applauded  by  a  set  of  toad-eaters 
and  hungry  poets." 

"As  an  author  he  was  not  without  merit,  having  written 
some  smart  epigrams,  prologues,  epilogues,  and  farces;  and, 
to  do  him  justice,  he  was  not  very  vain  of  his  writings. 

"To  conclude  of  him  as  an  actor, 

« Take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  his  like  again.' 


504  APPENDIX. 

t(  As  a  man  he  had  failings,  for  which  we  must  make  allow- 
ance when  we  consider  that  he  was  intoxicated,  and  even 
corrupted,  by  the  great  incense  and  court  paid  to  him  by  his 
admirers." 


INDEX. 


"  ABANDON,"  a  theatrical  term,  178. 

Acting,  theory  of,  29;  not  mere 
declaiming,  30;  object  to  hit  off 
life,  31 ;  dramatic  expression,  31 ; 
tricks  of  personal  habit,  32;  mel- 
odramatic style  of,  33 ;  Shake- 
speare's ideal  of,  34;  discards 
mannerisms  of  self,  38;  contrast- 
ed with  reading,  39;  stage-habit 
of  imitation,  43 ;  stage-traditions 
of,  44 ;  the  stage-voice,  45 ;  old- 
time  mannerisms,  47 ;  "  teapot 
style"  of,  49;  a  hundred  years 
ago,  59;  romantic  school  of,  251. 

Actor,  the,  genius  and  work  of,  27; 
art  of,  28;  danger  of  erring,  30; 
Hamlet's  advice  to,  36;  as  Mac- 
beth, 38;  old  English  intonation 
of,  48;  anecdotes  of,  87-109; 
early  training  of,  252;  mechan- 
ical manners  of  young  actors, 
276;  author's  testimony  to  esti- 
mable lives  of,  403. 

Adams,  Augustus,  imitation  of  For- 
rest, 348;  his  curse  in  Lear  in- 
terrupted, 357. 

Adams's,  John  Quincy,  anecdote  of 
R.  M.  Johnson,  270. 

Ancient  Mariner,  elder  Booth's  read- 
ing of,  277. 

Andre,  Major,  acting  at  South  Street 
Theatre,  Philadelphia,  318. 


Aristotle  and  Shakespeare,  170. 
Astley's    training    of    circus-horses, 

347- 
Asylum  for  actors,  Forrest's,  328. 

B. 

BAKER,  Mrs.  Alexina  Fisher,  402. 
Banquet,  DeCamp's   realistic   stage, 

219. 
Barbara  S ,  anecdote  by  Chas. 

Lamb,  331. 
Barry,  Thomas,  401. 
Bates,  John,  bargains  with  Forrest, 

329- 

Beggar's  Opera,  Miss  DeCamp  in, 
197. 

Betty,  Master,  in  London,  338 ;  Rey- 
nolds's  opinion  of,  341 ;  furore  for, 
341 ;  forsaken  in  manhood,  345. 

Booth,  Edwin,  as  Lear,  81. 

Booth,  Junius  Brutus,  174;  not  an 
imitator,  176;  elocutionary  skill 
of,  177;  absence  of  trickery  in, 
179;  eccentric  habits  of,  180;  as 
Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  181 ;  as 
Richard  the  Third,  187;  as  a 
reader,  275 ;  analysis  of  his  read- 
ing by  T.  R.  Gould,  278. 

Brown,  Frederick  F.,  290;  Mrs.  F. 
F.  Brown,  203. 

Buckstone  the  comedian,  78 ;  at 
the  Haymarket  with  Murdoch, 
360;  mannerisms  of,  380;  secret 
of  success  of,  382. 

505 


506 


INDEX. 


Burton,  William  E.,  223;  charged 
as  imitator  by  Tyrone  Power,  230. 

C. 

CALDWELL,  JAMES  H.,  manager  at 
St.  Charles  Theatre,  New  Orleans, 

233. 

Caliban,  personification  of  malice, 
162. 

Carey,  George  S.  and  Henry,  Tay- 
lor's praise  of,  136. 

Cato,  impromptu  prologue  to,  353. 

Celeste,  Madame,  joke  of,  on  "  sticks 
of  red  sealing-wax,"  395. 

Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadel- 
delphia,  "Old  Drury,"  399. 

Chicago,  its  pioneer  manager,  398. 

Childe  Harold,  passion  in,  132. 

Churchill's  Rosciad,  59. 

Cicero  and  Roscius,  contest  between, 
26. 

Claude's  idea  of  Nature,  33. 

Commons,  House  of,  adjourned  to 
see  Master  Betty,  339. 

Cooke,  George  Frederick,  79;  con- 
trasted with  Kemble,  80;  with 
Jefferson  and  Booth,  81 ;  as  lago, 
82 ;  in  Richard  the  Third,  85. 

Cooper,  Thomas,  in  Venice  Preserved, 
88;  a  daughter  at  the  White 
House,  90;  joke  of,  in  court- 
room, 91;  and  Kean,  143;  af- 
fronted at  "  mutton  -  chops  and 
mustard,"  374;  a  blunder  of,  as 
Virginius,  391. 

Coriolanus,  Kemble's  personation  of, 
304. 

Cushman,  Miss  Charlotte,  at  New 
Orleans,  234;  musical  voice 
broken,  236;  trained  for  Lady 
Macbeth,  237 ;  her  support  of 
Macready,  238;  faulty  vocaliza- 
tion of,  238;  social  ambition  of, 
239;  prosaic  style  of,  240. 

Cymbeline,  Charles  Kean  in,  147. 


D. 

DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS,  243 ;  an  ath- 
letic tragedian  foiled  in,  by  Irish 
sub,  245. 

DeCamp,  Miss,  in  the  ballet,  194; 
as  an  actress,  196;  in  opera,  197; 
as  Mrs.  Charles  Kemble,  198. 

DeCamp,  Vincent,  career  of,  201 ; 
on  the  stage,  206;  purchases  a 
cupola  for  a  monument,  210. 

Dickens,  Charles,  his  readings  and 
Buckstone's  delivery,  383. 

Disguises  on  the  stage,  no. 

Dog-mania  in  London,  345. 

Doran  on  Kean,  139. 

Dr.  C ,  of  Philadelphia,  53. 

Dramatic  expression,  31 ;  excellence 
of,  lies  between  Forrest  and  Mac- 
ready,  295. 

Dramatist,  The,  Murdoch's  revival 
of,  at  London,  365. 

Dreer,  P'erdinand  J.,  419. 

Drew,  Mrs.  John,  234. 

Drunken  actor,  a,  397. 

E. 

ELOCUTION,  changes  of  fashion  in, 
43;  as  usually  taught,  274. 

Emphasis,  Professor  White's  stress 
on,  282. 

English  affectation  in  speech,  97.    , 

Estelle,  Madame,  Murdoch's  visit  to, 
250. 

Everett,  Edward,  articulation  of,  76. 

F. 

FIELD,  Mrs.  J.  M.,  as  Juliet  at  Lan- 
caster, Pa.,  124. 

Fisher,  Miss  Clara,  234;  as  Mrs. 
Maeder,  401. 

Fleck,  Johann  F.,  mention  of,  by 
Tieck,  384. 

Forrest,  Edwin,  intonation  of,  46 ;  con- 
trasted with  Macready  on  Yorick, 
256 ;  early  career  of,  259 ;  later  ar. 


INDEX. 


507 


tistic  excellence  of,  260;  as  a  reader 
281;  early  imitation  of  Kean,  282; 
Murdoch's  critique  on  early  read- 
ing by,  283 ;  fervor  of,  outstripped 
analytic  ability,  294 ;  versus  Mac- 
ready,  294;  strong  physique  and 
passions  of,  295 ;  progressive  im- 
provement of,  296 ;  his  spectacular 
parts,  297 ;  at  Augusta,  Ga.,  as 
Metamora,  298 ;  at  a  Boston  sup- 
per, 300 ;  a  brilliant  conversation- 
alist, 302 ;  as  a  youthful  amateur, 
317;  debut  of,  on  the  stage,  320; 
lack  of  imagination,  324;  moody 
spirit  of,  327 ;  miscarriage  of  his 
asylum  for  actors,  328;  his  bar 
gain  with  Bates,  329 ;  aversion  to 
puny  guards,  357. 

Frenchman's,  a,  rendering  of  Ham- 
let's soliloquy,  313;  and  of  Rich- 
ard the  Third,  314. 

G. 

GARRICK,  DAVID,  Dr.  Johnson's  crit- 
icism of,  30;  as  a  manager,  61;  as 
an  actor,  63 ;  a  fable  by,  65 ;  Gold- 
smith's portrait  of,  65  ;  his  reading 
of  Hamlet,  67 ;  vocal  expression  of, 
74 ;  command  of  the  passions,  75 ; 
affectation  of,  in  speech,  98 ;  as  Ben- 
edick, 305;  last  appearance  of,  309 ; 
his  story  of  "the  white  stocking," 
376 ;  Gibber's  critique  of,  462-486. 

George  JSarnwell,  a  shadowy  per- 
formance of,  215. 

George  the  Third's  habits  of  speech, 
97 ;  perpetuated  by  the  actors,  98. 

Ghosts  in  the  drama,  163. 

Gilbert,  John  G.,  413. 

Goldsmith  and  Garrick,  64. 

Gould's,  Thomas  R.,  opinion  of  the 
elder  Booth,  278. 

H. 

HABIT,  tricks  of  personal,  32. 


Hamblin's  prediction  about  Forrest's 
moodiness,  327. 

Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players,  36; 
reading  of,  by  Garrick,  67 ;  Mac- 
ready  as,  115;  a  democratic  king 
in,  123;  travesty  of,  by  De  Camp, 
207 ;  right  reading  of  "  the  fune- 
ral baked  meats,"  304;  Kemble's 
labor  as,  305  ;  Garrick's  power  in, 
307;  a  Frenchman's  failure  in, 
313  ;  too  deep  for  amateurs,  417; 
Kemble's  black  plumes  in,  418. 

Harlequin,  epilogue  of,  323. 

Harris,  Garrick  commended  by,  307. 

Hat,  Green's  story  of  a,  377. 

Henderson's  efforts  at  memorizing, 
261. 

Holland  the  player,  62. 

Hull  the  actor,  310;  author  of  Fair 
Rosamond,  311;  founder  of  the 
"  Theatrical  Fund,"  312 ;  Taylor's 
verses  on,  313. 

I. 

Imitation  and  mimicry,  42,  50;  im- 
itation on  the  stage,  43 ;  personal 
faults  and  traits  easily  caught,  51. 

Iron  Chest,  The,  185. 

J. 

Jefferson's  Rip  Van  Winkle,  81. 
Johnson,  Dr.,  his  criticism  of  Garrick 

as  Richard,  29 ;  and  as  Hamlet,  308. 
Johnson,  Richard  M.,  his  compliment 

to  Miss  Fanny  Kemble's   acting, 

270. 
Jupiter  and  Mercury,  a  Fable,  by 

Garrick,  65. 

K. 

KEAN,  CHARLES,  imitates  his  father, 
77,  145;  as  Posthumus,  146;  at- 
tention of,  to  stage-business,  350. 

[Cean,  Edmund,  hints  on  articulation 
of,  75 ;  Punch's  criticism  of,  79 ; 


508 


INDEX. 


as  Richard  the  Third,  86 ;  and  his 
critics,  129;  Taylor's  critique  on, 
133 ;  Dr.  Doran's  opinion  of,  139; 
debut  of,  in  London,  172;  his 
vocal  fireworks,  178;  Tieck's  crit- 
icism of,  385. 

Kemble,  Charles,  Taylor's  notice  of, 
198;  his  blunder  as  Shylock,  394. 

Kemble,  Mrs.  Frances  Ann,  An  Old 
Woman's  Gossipy  200;  as  an  ac- 
tress, 204. 

Kemble,  John  Philip,  72;  his  recita- 
tions grave  and  sombre,  73;  con- 
trasted with  Cooke,  80,  83;  mis- 
taken ambition  of,  for  comedy, 
107  ;  Reynolds's  anecdote  of,  108; 
his  criticism  of  Kean  as  Shylock, 
130;  first  London  appearance  as 
Hamlet,  303;  his  faithful  studies 
of  Hamlet,  305  ;  his  loss  by  the 
burning  of  the  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  485  ;  Tieck's  criticism  of, 
387 ;  as  Hotspur,  388 ;  as  Hamlet, 
389 ;  as  Coriolanus,  390. 

Kiss,  a  too  fervid,  269. 

L. 

LADY  MACBETH,  personality  of,  241 ; 
unsexed  by  Miss  Cushman's  act- 

^  ing,  241 ;  Miss  Menken  as,  287. 

La  Perouse,  a  sensation  at  the  play 
of,  290. 

Lear's  bewildered  frenzy,  131 ;  For- 
rest's triumph  in,  and  Longfellow's 
commendation  of,  296;  Augustus 
Adams  interrupted  in  the  curse  of, 

357- 

London,  theatrical  sensations  in,  338; 
Murdoch's  experiences  at,  358. 

M. 

MACBETH,  delineation  of,  38 ;  a  blun- 
der in,  393. 

MacdufPs  petrified  grief,  132. 
Macready,    William,     midnight    re- 


hearsal by,  94;  his  peculiarity  of 
voice,  96;  anecdote  of,  100;  at 
Macbeth's  rehearsal,  101 ;  inability 
of,  to  improvise,  103;  art  of,  too 
elaborate,  114;  youthful  natural- 
ness of,  116;  his  interpretation  of 
obscure  readings,  118;  as  Werner, 
120;  cough  of,  in  Richelieu,  122; 
playing  with  Miss  Ellen  Tree, 
149 ;  early  training  and  career  of, 
253;  on  Yorick  in  Hamlet,  256; 
and  Forrest's  rendering,  257 ; 
Macready's  particularity,  258;  just 
spirit  of,  259 ;  compared  with  For- 
rest, 295 ;  at  rehearsal  with  a  snuf- 
fling actor,  352. 

Maeder,  James  E.,  234. 

Man,  Shakespeare's  idea  of,  34. 

Mannerism,  tricks  of,  32,  38;  of  old 
times,  47. 

Martin,  Theodore,  criticism  of,  on 
the  English  stage,  390. 

Mathews  the  Elder,  as  a  mimic,  52; 
irritability  of,  55. 

Meg  Merrilies,  personality  of,  240. 

Melodramatic  acting,  33. 

Memory,  efforts  of,  261. 

Menken,  Adah  Isaacs,  as  Lady  Mac- 
beth, 287. 

Metamora,  Forrest  as,  at  Augusta, 
Ga.,  298. 

Monboddo  on  Steele's  notation,  70. 

Monsieur  Tonson,  DeCamp  in,  209. 

Morgan,  Maurice,  essay  by,  on 
Shakespeare,  156. 

Mossop  the  tragedian,  68. 

Mouthing,  68. 

Murdoch,  James  E.,  notices  English 
intonation  during  Southern  ap- 
prenticeship, 48 ;  anecdote  of  Ma- 
th ews's  irritability,  55 ;  imitates 
Kemble's  rendering  of  Hamlet's 
soliloquy,  72;  appearance  in  Wild 
Oats  at  London,  78;  his  retire- 
ment from  the  stage,  99;  a  varia- 


INDEX. 


509 


tion  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  Lan 
caster,  124;  playing  with  the  elder 
Booth  in  The  Iron  Chest,  182;  as 
"  a  walking  gentleman "  at  Co- 
lumbia, S.  C.,  204;  at  a  singular 
performance  of  George  Barnwell, 
215 ;  receives  a  medal  from  Ty- 
rone Power,  231 ;  his  intercourse 
with  Miss  Cushman,  234 ;  his  visit 
to  an  old  Kentucky  home,  247 ; 
memorizes  the  part  of  Hotspur  too 
hastily,  202 ;  appears  as  an  im- 
promptu poet,  265 ;  his  improvi- 
sations in  The  Fatal  Marriage, 
267;  a  too  fervid  kiss,  269;  crit 
ique  on  Forrest's  early  reading, 
283 ;  critique  on  Garrick  as  Ben- 
edick, 306;  London  experiences 
of,  358 ;  another's  blunder  in  Wild 
Oats,  363 ;  Thackeray's  article  on, 
in  Punch,  366 ;  advice  to,  from 
Mr.  Wood,  370;  rivalry  with  the 
latter  for  "  a  cast,"  372 ;  a  mis- 
take of,  redeemed,  404;  his  ex- 
perience on  the  Isthmus,  407 ; 
his  first  attempt  to  play  Hamlet, 
417. 

Murdoch,  Samuel  K.,  405. 

Murphy's  story,  242. 

N. 
NATURE,  a  true  idea  of,  33. 

O. 

O'NEILL  and  Kean,  140. 
Othello's  majestic  passion,  142. 
Oxenford,  Mr.,  the  Times  critic,  364. 

P. 

PARRHASIUS,   Forrest's   reading  of, 

284. 
Passion  exhibited  in  Lear,  Macduff, 

and  Childe  Harold,  131. 
Portia,  her  femininity,  ill. 


Power,  Tyrone,  the  Irish  actor,  223 ; 

mirth-loving  nature   of,  224;    his 

practical    joke    on    Burton,   226; 

how  he  cut  The  West  Indian,  228 ; 

his  final  exit,  232. 
Preston,    William   C.,   anecdote   of 

Macready,  93. 

Q- 

QUACK  DOCTOR,  anecdote  of,  335. 


READING  and  acting  compared,  39. 

Realism  of  Shakespeare,  113. 

Reynolds  on  Garrick's  Benedick,  306. 

Richard  the  Third,  Charles  Kean's 
elaborate  production  of,  1 88;  play- 
ed for  one  auditor,  215  ;  a  French- 
man's performance  of,  315;  »a 
stage-blunder  in,  411. 

Rice,  John  B.,  49 ;  pioneer  manager 
at  Chicago,  398. 

Richelieu,  Macready's  cough  in,  122. 

"  Roland  for  an  Oliver,"  a,  217. 

Romantic  school  of  acting,  211. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  dying-scene 
a  resurrection,  127. 

Rosalind  in  As  You  Like  It,  112. 

Rush,  Dr.  James,  on  the  elder  Booth, 
178;  his  principles  of  vocal  cul- 
ture, 275;  his  Philosophy  of  the 
Voice,  280. 

Rymer  and  Shakespeare,  170. 

S. 

"  SAILOR  BOY'S  DREAM,"  265. 

School  for  Scandal,  waning  influ- 
ence of,  229. 

Scott,  John  R.,  blunder  of,  as  Vir- 
ginius,  393. 

Shakespeare,  attributes  of  his  cha- 
racter, 29;  his  idea  of  a  man,  34; 
•  his  ideal  of  dramatic  action,  34; 
sure  foundations  of  his  fame,  40; 
illustrations  of  dramatic  art  by, 


INDEX. 


109;    realism  of,    113;    and    his 

critics,   154;    Morgan's   essay  on, 

IS6. 
Shylock,   the    knife-sharpening    by, 

326;    Charles   Kemble's    blunder 

as,  394. 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  voice  of,  48;  her  first 

study  for  Lady  Macbeth,  263 ;  Dr. 

Rush's  testimony  to  her  perfection 

of  speech,  275  ;  her  innovation  in 

the  "  candle-scene,"  416. 
Southey  on  Edmund  Kean,  173. 
South  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia, 

318. 
Stage,  the  voice,  45 ;  to  be  a  school 

of  dramatic  instruction,  254. 
Steele's    Measure    and   Melody    of 

Speech,  66. 
Supernumeraries,  stories  of,  356. 

T. 

TAYLOR,  JOHN,  and  Kemble,  106, 
303 ;  his  critique  of  Kean,  133  ; 
an  epitaph  by,  on  the  actor  Hull, 

SIS- 

"Teapot  style  of  acting,"  49. 

Thackeray's  Punch  article  on  Mur- 
doch, 366. 

Thayer,  Edwin,  the  comedian,  91. 

Theatrical  Fund,  the  founder  of  the 
312. 

Thunder  and  lightning,  theatrical, 
the  process  of,  290;  a  ludicrous 
blunder  in,  291. 

Tieck,  Ludwig,  on  Fleck,  Kean,  and 
Kemble,  384. 

Tom  Thumb  and  Forrest  at  Cincin- 
nati, 330. 

Traditions  of  the  stage,  44. 


Tragedian,   relation   of  the,  to  the 

poet,  25. 
Tree,   Ellen,   and    Macready,    149- 

and  with  Charles  Webb,  151. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  34. 

V. 

VANDENHOFF  THE  ELDER,  189;  as 
a  classic  tragedian,  190;  an  anec- 
dote of,  as  Macbeth,  191. 

Virginius,  actors'  blunders  in,  391. 

Vocal  imitation,  46. 

Voice,  the  stage,  45 ;  of  Puritans 
and  Cavaliers,  47 ;  of  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons,  48 ;  scientific  culture  of, 
275;  Dr.  Rush's  Philosophy  of 
the,  280. 

W. 

WALLACK,  JAMES,  SR.,  the  first  ro- 
mantic actor,  220;  a  case  of  mis- 
taken identity,  222. 

Wallack,  Lester,  221. 

Warren,  William,  manager  of  "  Old 
Drury,"  Philadelphia,  399. 

Warren,  William,  Jr.,  of  Boston  Mu- 
seum, 414. 

Werner,  Macready  as,   120. 

White,  Professor,  Forrest's  vocal 
training  by,  281. 

Wignell's  pompous  delivery,  354 ; 
his  prologue  to  Cato,  355. 

Wild  Oats,  Murdoch's  rehearsal  of, 
at  London,  362. 

"  Winging  it,"  the  art  of,  289. 

Wood,  William  B.,  a  favorite  of  Phil- 
adelphia, 226;  Tyrone  Power's 
joke  on,  228;  his  fatherly  advice 
to  young  Murdoch,  370. 

Writing  out  of  parts,  the,  305. 


PUBLICATIONS 


OF 


ROBERT  CLARKE   &  CO., 

CINCINNATI,  O. 


HISTORICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

ALZOG  (John  D.  D.)  A  Manual  of  Universal  Church  History. 
Translated  by  Rev.  T.  J.  Pabisch  and  Rev.  T.  S.  Byrne.  3 
vols.  8vo.  15  00 

ANDERSON  (E.  L.)     Six  Weeks  in  Norway.     18mo.  1  00 

ANDRE  (Major).  The  Cow  Chase;  an  Heroick  Poem.  8vo. 
Paper.  75 

ANTRIM  (J.)  The  History  of  Champaign  and  Logan  Counties, 
Ohio,  from  their  First  Settlement.  12mo.  1  50 

BALLARD  (Julia  P.)  Insect  Lives;  or,  Born  in  Prison.  Illus- 
trated. Sq.  12mo.  1  00 

BASSLER  (S.  S.)  The  "Weather.  A  Practical  Guide  to  its  Changes. 
8vo.  Paper.  25 

£ELL  (Thomas  J.)  History  of  the  Cincinnati  Water  Works. 
Plates.  8vo.  75 

BENXER  (S.)  Prophecies  of  Future  Ups  and  Downs  in  Prices: 
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visions. 2d  ed.  24mo.  1  00 

BIBLE  IN  THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS.     Records.     Arguments,  etc.,  in  the 

Case  of  Minor  vs.  Board  of  Education  or  Cincinnati.    8vo.    200 

Arguments  in   Favor  of  the   Use  of  the  Bible.      Separate. 

Paper,  50 

Arguments  Against  the  Use  of  the  Bible.  Separate.   Paper,     50 

BIBLIOTHECA  AMERICANA.  1883.  Being  a  priced  Catalogue  of  a 
large  Collection  (nearly  7,000  items)  of  Books  and  Pamphlets 
relating  to  America.  8vo.  312  pages.  Paper,  50c.;  Cloth,  1  00 

BIDDLE  (Horace  P.)     Elements  of  Knowledge.     12mo.  1  00 

BIDDLE  (Horace  P.)     Prose  Miscellanies.     12mo.  100 

BOUQUET  (H.)  The  Expedition  of,  against  the  Ohio  Indians  in 
1764,  etc.  With  Preface  by  Francis  Parkman,  Jr.  8yo. 
$3.00.  Large  paper,  6  00 

BOYLAND  (G.  H.,  M.D.)  Six  Months  Under  the  Red  Cross  with 
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BRUNNER  (A.  A.)  Elementary  and  Pronouncing  French  Reader. 
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BRUXNER  (A.  A.)  The  Gender  of  French  Verbs  Simplified. 
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BURT  (Rev.  N.  C  ,  D.D.)  The  Far  East;  or  Letters  from  Egypt, 
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BUTTERFIELD  (C.  W.)     The  Washington-Crawford  Letters;  being 


2  Robert  Clarice  &  Co.'s  Publications. 

the  Correspondence  between  George  Washington  and  William 
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BUTTERFIELD  (C.  W.)  The  Discovery  of  the  Northwest  in  1634, 
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CLARK  (Col.  George  Rogers).  Sketches  of  his  Campaign  in  the 
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COFFIN  (Levi.)  The  Reminiscences  of  Levi  Coffin,  the  Reputed 
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the  Labors  of  a  Lifetime  in  behalf  of  the  Slave.  With  Stories 
of  Fugitive  Slaves,  etc.,  etc.  12mo.  2  00 

COLLIER  (Peter).  Sorghum:  "its  Culture  and  Manufacture  Eco- 
nomically Considered,  and  as  a  Source  of  Sugar,  Syrup  and 
Fodder.  Illustrated.  8vo.  3  00 

CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES,  ETC.  The  Declaration  of 
Independence,  July  4,  1776;  the  Articles  of  Confederation, 
July  9,  1778;  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  September 
17,  1787;  the  Fifteen  Amendment  to  the  Constitution,  and 
Index;  Washington's  Farewell  Address,  September  7,  1796. 
Svo.  Paper.  25 

CORNWELL  (H.  G.)  Consultation  Chart  of  the  Eye-Syrnptoms 
and  Eye-Complications  of  General  Disease.  14  x  20  inches. 
Mounted  on  Roller.  50 

CRAIG  (N.  B.)  The  Olclen  Time.  A  Monthly  Publication,  de- 
voted to  the  Preservation  of  Documents  of  Early  History, 
etc.  Originally  Published  at  Pittsburg,  in  1846-47.  2  vols. 
8vo.  10  00 

DRAKE  (D.)  Pioneer  Life  in  Kentucky.  Edited,  with  Notes 
and  a  Biographical  Sketch  by  his  Son,  Hon.  Chas.  D.  Drake. 
Svo.  $3  00.  Large  paper.  6  00 

DuBREuiL  (A.)  Vineyard  Culture  Improved  and  Cheapened. 
Edited  by  Dr.  J.  A.  Warder.  12mo.  200 

ELLARD  (Virginia  G.)  Grandma's  Christmas  Day.  Illus.  Sq. 
12mo.  1  00 

EVERTS  (Orpheus).  What  Shall  We  Do  With  the  Drunkard  ? 
A  Rational  View  of  the  Use  of  Brain  Stimulants.  Svo. 
Paper.  50 

FAMILY  EXPENSE  BOOK.  A  Printed  Account  Book,  with  Appro- 
priate Columns  and  Headings,  for  keeping  a  Complete  Record 
of  Family  Expenses.  12mo.  50 

FINLEY  (I.  J.)  and  PUTNAM  (R.)  Pioneer  Record  and  Reminis- 
cences of  the  Early  Settlers  and  Settlement  of  Ross  County, 
Ohio.  Svo.  ,  2  50 

FLETCHER  (Win.  B.,  M.D.)  Cholera:  its  Characteristics,  History, 
Treatment,  etc.  Svo.  Paper.  1  00 

FORCE  (M.  F.)  Essays:  Pre-Historic  Man— Darwinism  and 
Deity — The  Mound  Builders.  Svo.  Paper. 

FORCE  (M.  F.)  Some  Early  Notices  of  the  Indians  of  Ohio. 
To  What  Race  did  the  Mound  Builders  Belong?  Svo. 
Paper.  50 

FREEMAN  (Ellen).  Manual  of  the  French  Verb,  to  accompany 
every  French  Course.  16mo.  Paper.  25 


Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications.  3 

GALLAGHER  (Wm.  D.)  Miami  Woods,  A  Golden  Wedding,  and 
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GRIMKE  (F.)  Considerations  on  the  Nature  and  Tendency  of 
Free  Institutions.  8vo.  2  50 

GIUSVVOLD  (W.)  Kansas:  Her  Resources  and  Developments ;  or, 
the  Kansas  Pilot.  8vo.  Paper.  50 

HALL  (James).  Legends  of  the  West.  Sketches  illustrative  of 
the  Habits,  Occupations,  Privations,  Adventures,  and  Sports 
of  the  Pioneers  of  the  West.  12mo.  2  00 

HALL  (James).  Romance  of  Western  History;  or,  Sketches  of 
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HANOVER  (M.  D.)  A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Law  of  Horses, 
embracing  the  Law  of  Bargain,  Sale,  and  Warranty  of  Horses 
and  other  Live  Stock;  the  Rule  as  to  Unsoundness  and  Vice, 
and  the  Responsibility  of  the  Proprietors  of  Livery,  Auction, 
and  Sale  Stables,  Inn-keepers,  Veterinary  Surgeons,  and  Far- 
riers, Carriers,  etc.  8vo.  4  00 

HART  (J.  M.)  A  Syllabus  of  Anglo-Saxon  Literature.  8vo. 
Paper.  50 

HASSAUREK  (F.)  The  Secret  of  the  Andes.  A  Romance. 
12mo.  1  50 

THE  SAME,  in  German.  8vo.  Paper,  50c.;  cloth,  1  00 

HASSAUREK  (F.)  Four  Years  Among  Spanish  Americans.  Third 
Edition.  12mo.  1  50 

HATCH  (Col.  W.  S.)  A  Chapter  in  the  History  of  the  War  of 
1812,  in  the  Northwest,  embracing  the  Surrender  of  the 
Northwestern  Army  and  Fort,  at  Detroit,  August  16,  1813,  etc. 
18mo.  1  25 

HAYES  (Rutherford  B.)  The  Life,  Public  Services,  and  Select 
Speeches  of.  Edited  by  J.  Q.  Howard.  12mo.  Paper,  75c.; 
Cloth.  1  25 

HAZEX  (Gen.  W.  B.)  Our  Barren  Lands.  The  Interior  of  the 
United  States,  West  of  the  One-Hundredth  Meridian,  and 
East  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  8vo*.  Paper.  50 

HEXSHALL  (Dr.  James  A.)  Book  of  the  Black  Bass;  comprising 
its  complete  Scientific  and  Life  History,  together  with  a  Prac- 
tical Treatise  on  Angling  and  Fly  Fishing,  and  a  full  de- 
scription of  Tools,  'tackle,  and  Implements.  Illustrated. 
12mo.  3  00 

HOUTON  (S.  Dana).  Silver  and  Gold,  and  their  Relation  to  the 
Problem  of  Resumption.  8vo.,  1  50' 

HORTOX  (S.  Dana).     The  Monetary  Situation.     8vo.     Paper.     50 

HOUGH  ( Franklin  B.)  Elements  of  Forestry.  Designed  to  afford 
Information  concerning  the  Planting  and  Care  of  Forest  Trees 
for  Ornament  and  Profit;  and  giving  Suggestions  upon  the 
Creation  and  Care  of  Woodlands,  with  the  view  of  securing 
the  greatest  benefit  for  theJongest  time.  Particularly  adapted 
to  the  wants  and  conditions  of  the  United  States.  Illus- 
trated. 12mo.  2  00 

HOUSEKEEPING  IN  THE  BLUE  GRASS.  .  A  New  and  Practical  Cook 
Book.  By  Ladies  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  Paris,  Ky. 
12mo.  13th  thousand.  1  50 

HOVEY  (Horace  C.)     Celebrated  American   Caverns,   especially 


4  Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications. 

Mammoth,  Wyandot,  and  Luray  ;  together  with  Historical,  Sci- 
entific, and  Descriptive  Notices  of  Caves  and  Grottoes  in  Other 
Lands.  Maps  and  Illustrations.  8vo.  2  00 

HOWE  (H.)  Historical  Collections  of  Ohio.  Containing  a  Col- 
lection of  the  most  Interesting  Facts,  Traditions,  Biographical 
Sketches,  Anecdotes,  etc.,  relating  to  its  Local  and  General 
History.  8vo.  6  00 

HUNT  (W.  E.)  Historical  Collections  of  Coshocton  County,  Ohio. 
8vo.  3  00 

HUSTON  (R.  G.)  Journey  in  Honduras,  and  Jottings  by  the  Way. 
Inter-Oceanic  Railway.  8vo.  Paper.  50 

JACKSON  (John  D.,  M.D.)  The  Black  Arts  in  Medicine,  with 
an  Anniversary  Address.  Edited  by  Dr.  L.  S.  McMurtry. 
12mo.  1  00 

JASPER  (T.)  The  Birds  of  North  America.  Colored  Plates, 
drawn  from  Nature,  with  Descriptive  and  Scientific  Letter- 
press. In  40  parts,  $1.00  each ;  or,  2  vols.  Royal  4to.  Half- 
morocco,  $50  00 ;  full  morocco,  60  00 
The  Same.  Popular  portion  only  with  the  Colored  Plates. 
1  vol.  Half  morocco,  $36.50;  full  morocco,  40  00 

JORDAN  (D.  M.)  Rosemary  Leaves.  A  Collection  of  Poems. 
18mo.  1  50 

KELLER  (M.  J.)  Elementary  Perspective,  explained  and  applied 
to  Familiar  Objects.  Illustrated.  !2rno.  1  00 

KING  (John).  A  Commentary  on  the  Law  and  True  Construction 
of  the  Federal  Constitution.  Svo.  2  50 

KLHTART  (J.  H.)  The  Principles  and  Practice  of  Land  Drainage. 
Illustrated.  12mo.  1  75 

LAW  (J.)  Colonial  History  of  Vincennes,  Indiana,  under  the 
French,  British,  and  American  Governments.  12mo.  1  00 

LLOYD  (J.  LT.)  The  Chemistry  of  Medicines.  Illus.  12mo. 
Cloth,  $2  75;  Sheep,  3  25 

LLOYD  (J.  U.)  Pharmaceutical  Preparations;  Elixirs,  their 
History,  Formulae,  and  Methods  of  Preparation.  12mo.  1  25 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  Eclectic  Manual  of  Phonography.  A  Com- 
plete Guide  to  the  Acquisition  of  Pitman's  Phonetic  Short- 
hand, with  or  without  a  Master.  A  new  and  carefully  revised 
edition.  12mo.  Stiff  paper  binding,  65c.;  Cloth,  75 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  The  Reporter's  Guide.  Designed  for  Students 
in  any  Style  of  Phonography;  in  which  are  formulated  for 
the  first  time  in  any  work  of  the  kind  Rules  for  the  Contraction 
of  Words,  Principles  of  Phrasing,  and  Methods  of  Abbrevia- 
tion. Abundantly  illustrated.  12mo.  2  00 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  American  Phonographic  Dictionary,  exhibit- 
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Words  in  the  English  Language,  about  50,000  in  number,  and, 
in  addition,  many  Foreign  Terms;  also,  for  2,000  Geographical 
Names,  and  as  many  Family,  Personal,  and  Noted  Fictitious 
Names.  ]2mo.  2  50 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  Every  Reporter's  Own  Shorthand  Dictionary. 
The  same  as  the  above,  but  printed  on  writing  paper,  leaving 
out  the  Shorthand  Forms  and  giving  blank  lines  opposite 
each  word,  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  writers  of  any  System 


Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications.  5 

of  Shorthand  to  put  upon  record,  for  convenient  reference,  the 
peculiar  word-forms  they  employ.     12mo.  2  50 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  Compend  of  Phonography,  presenting  a  Table 
of  all  Alphabetical  Combinations,  Hooks,  Circles,  Loops,  etc., 
at  one  view;  also,  Complete  Lists  of  Word-signs  and  Con- 
tracted Word-forms,  with  Rules  for  Contracting  Words  for 
the  Use  of  Writers  of  all  Styles  of  Phonography.  12mo. 
Paper.  25 

LONGLEY  (Elias).  The  Phonetic  Reader  and  Writer,  containing 
Reading  Exercises,  with  Translations  on  opposite  pages,  which 
form  Writing  Exercises.  12mo.  25 

LOXGLEY  (Elias).     Phonographic  Chart.     28  x  42  inches.  50 

McBRiDE  (J.)  Pioneer  Biography;  Sketches  of  the  Lives  of 
some  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Butler  County,  Ohio.  2  vols. 
8vo.  $6  50.  Large  paper.  Imp.  8vo.  13  00 

MCLAUGHLIN  (M.  Louise).  China  Painting.  A  Practical  Manual 
for  the  Use  of  Amateurs  in  the  Decoration  of  Hard  Porce- 
lain. Sq.  12mo.  Boards.  75 

MCLAUGHLIN  (M.  Louise).  Pottery  Decoration:  being  a  Prac- 
tical Manual  of  Underglaize  Painting.  Sq.  12mo.  Boards.  1  00 

MCLAUGHLIN  (M.  Louise).  Suggestions  for  China  Painters.  Sq. 
12mo.  Boards.  1  00 

MACLEAN  (J.  P.)  The  Mound  Builders,  and  an  Investigation 
into  the  Archaeology  of  Butler  County,  Ohio.  Illus.  12mo.  1  50 

MACLEAN  (J.  P.)  A  Manual  of  the  Antiquity  of  Man.  Illus- 
trated. 12mo.  1  00 

MACLEAN  (J.  P.)  Mastodon,  Mammoth,§and  Man.  Illustrated. 
12mo.  60 

MACLEAN  (J.  P.)  The  Worship  of  the  Reciprocal  Principles  of 
Nature  among  the  Ancient  Hebrews.  18mo.  Paper.  25 

MANSFIELD  (E.  D.)  Personal  Memories,  Social,  Political,  and 
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MANYPENNY  (G.  W.)  Our  Indian  Wards.  A  History  and  Dis- 
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MAY  (Col.  J.)  Journal  and  Letters  of,  relative  to  Two  Journeys 
to  the  Ohio  Country,  1788  and  1779.  8vo.  2  00 

METTEXHEIMER  (H.  J.)  Safety  Book-keeping.  Being  a  Complete 
Exposition  of  Book-keeper's  Frauds — how  Committed,  how 
discovered,  how  prevented ;  with  other  Suggestions  of  Value 
to  Merchants  and  Book-keepers  in  the  Management  of  Ac- 
counts. 18mo.  Cloth.  1  00 

MINOR  (T.  C.,  M.D.)  Child-bed  Fever.  Erysipelas  and  Puerperal 
Fever,  with  a  Short  Account  of  both  Diseases.  8vo.  2  00 

MINOR  (T.  C.,  M.D.)  Scarlatina  Statistics  of  the  United  States. 
8vo.  Paper.  50 

MORGAN  (Appleton).  The  Shakespearean  Myth;  or,  William 
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MORGAN  (Appleton).  Some  Shakespearean  Commentators.  12mo. 
Paper.  75 

NAME  AND  ADDRESS  BOOK.  A  Blank  Book,  with  Printed  Headings 
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and  Addresses  of  Professional,  Commercial,  and  Family.  Cor- 
respondents. 8vo.  1  00 


6  Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications. 

NASH  (Simeon).     Crime  and  the  Family.     12mo.  1   25 

NKRINCKX  (ixev.  Charles).  Life  of,  with  Early  Catholic  Missions 
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etc.  By  Rev.  C.  P.  Maes.  8vo.  2  50 

NICHOLS  ((1.  W.)  The  Cincinnati  Organ;  with  a  Brief  Descrip- 
tion of  the  Cincinnati  Music  Hall.  12mo.  Paper.  25 

OHIO  VALLEY  HISTORICAL  MISCELLANIES.  I.  Memorandums  of  a 
Tour  made  by  Josiah  Espy,  in  the  States  of  Ohio,  and  Ken- 
tucky, and  Indian  Territory,  in  1S05.  IF.  Two  Western  Cam- 
paigns in  the  War  of  1812-13:  1.  Expedition  of  Capt.  H.  Brush, 
with  Supplies  for  General  Hull.  2.  Expedition  of  Gov.  Meigs, 
for  the  relief  of  Fort  Meigs.  By  Samuel  Williams.  III.  The 
Leatherwood  God :  an  account  of  the  Appearance  and  Preten- 
tions  of  J.  C.  Dylks  in  Eastern  Ohio,  in  1828.  By  11.  II . 
Tanevhill.  1  vol.  8vo.  $2  50.  Large  paper,  5  00 

ONCE  A  YEAR;  or,  The  Doctor's  Puzzle.    By  E.  B.  S.     16mo.     1  00 

OSBORN  (H.  S.)  Ancient  Egypt  in  the  Light  of  Modern  Discov- 
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PHISTERER  (Captain  Frederick).  The  National  Guardsman  :  on 
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PHYSICIAN'S  POOKET  CASE  RECORD  PRESCRIPTION  BOOK.  35 

PHYSICIAN'S  GENERAL  LEDGER.     Half  Russia.  4  00 

Pi  ATT  (John  J.)  Penciled  Fly-Leaves.  A  Book  of  Essays  in 
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POOLE  (W.  F.)  Anti-Slavery  Opinions  before  1800.  An  Essay. 
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PRENTICE  (Geo.  D.)  Poems  of,  collected  and  edited,  with  Bio- 
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QUICK  (R.  H.)  Essays  on  Educational  Reformers.  Schools  of 
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Locke;  Rousseau's  Emile;  Basidow  and  the  Philanthropin, 
etc.  12mo.  1  50 

RANCK  (G.  W.)  History  of  Lexington,  Kentucky.  Its  Early 
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REEMELIN  (C.)  The  Wine-Maker's  Manual.  A  Plain,  Practical 
Guide  to  all  the  Operations  for  the  Manufacture  of  Still  and 
Sparkling  Wines.  12rno.  1  25 

REEMELIN  (C.)     A  Treatise  on  Politics  as  a  Science.     Svo.       1  50 

REEMELIN(C.)    A  Critical  Review  of  American  Politics.  Svo.    3  50 

RKKMELIN  (C.)  Historical  Sketch  of  Green  Township,  Hamilton 
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RIVES  (E.  M.  D.)  A  Chart  of  the  Physiological  Arrangement 
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inches.  Folded,  in  cloth  case.  50 

ROBERT  (Karl).  Charcoal  Drawing  without  a  Master.  A  Com- 
plete Treatise  in  Landscape  Drawing  in  Charcoal,  with  Lessons 
and  Studies  alter  Allonge.  Translated  by  E.  H.  Appleton. 
Illustrated.  Svo.  1  00 

ROY  (George).  Generalship;  or,  How  I  Managed  my  Husband. 
A  tale.  18mo.  Paper,  50c. ;  Cloth.  100 

ROY  (George).  The  Art  of  Pleasing.  A  Lecture.  12mo.  Pa- 
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Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications.  7 

ROY  (George).  The  Old,  Old  Story.  A  Lecture.  12mo.  Pa- 
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RUSSELL  (A.  P.)     Thomas  Corwin.     A  Sketch.    16mo.  1  00 

RUSSELL  (Wm.)  Scientific  Horseshoeing  for  the  Different  Dis- 
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SATTLER  (Eric  E.)  The  History  of  Tuberculosis  from  the  time 
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ditions, from  the  German  of  Dr.  Arnold  Spina,  First  Assistant 
in  the  Laboratory  of  Professor  Strieker,  of  Vienna:  includ- 
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SA.YLER  (J.  A.)  American  Form  Book.  A  Collection  of  Legal 
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GIAUQUE  (F.)  The  Election  Laws  of  the  United  States.  Being 
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GIAUQUE  (F.)  A  complete  Manual  of  the  Road  Laws  of  Ohio 
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GIAUQUE  (F.)  and  McCu-RK  (H.  B.)  Dower  and  Curtesy  Tables, 
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BANDY'S  REPORTS.  Cincinnati  Superior  Court.  2  vols.  in  1. 
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HANOVER  (M.  D.)  A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Law  relating  to 
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day, the  fourth  day  of  January,  1883,  and  adjourned  without 
day  on  Monday,  the  fifth  day  of  March,  1883.  Edited,  printed, 
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KENTUCKY  REPORTS.  Reports  of  cases  decided  in  the  Court  of 
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KING  (J.)  A  Commentary  on  the  Law  and  True  Construction 
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MONTESQUIEU  (Baron  De).  The  Spirit  of  Laws.  Translated  from 
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MORGAN  (J.  A.)  An  English  Version  of  Legal  Maxims,  with  the 
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NASH  (S.)  Pleading  and  Practice  under  the  Codes  of  Ohio, 
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SAINT  GERMAIX  (C.)  The  Doctor  and  Student;  or,  Dialogues  be- 
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SAUNDERS  (T.  W.)  A  Treatise  upon  the  Law  of  Negligence. 
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STANTON(R.  H.)  A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Law  relating  to 
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SWAX  (J.  R.)  Pleadings  and  Precedents,  under  the  Code  of 
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WALKER  (J.  B.)  and  BATES  (C.)  A  new  Digest  of  Ohio  Decisions. 
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WARREN  (M.)  Criminal  Law  and  Forms.  Third  edition.  8vo.  5  00 

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WELLS  (J.  C.)  A  Manual  of  the  Laws  relating  to  County  Com- 
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12  Robert  Clarke  &  Co.'s  Publications. 

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WORKS  (John  D.)  Indiana  Practice,  Pleadings,  and  Forms.  2 

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